


What Dies Inside Us

by Jadelyn



Series: What Dies Inside Us [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bathing/Washing, Bottom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Bottom Jaskier | Dandelion, Come Eating, Drug Use, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Apologizes, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Mutual Pining, Oral Sex, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, Prostitute Jaskier | Dandelion, Rimming, Self-Harm, Self-Medication, Sex Work, Starvation, Suicidal Thoughts, Top Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Top Jaskier | Dandelion, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-25
Updated: 2020-11-01
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:35:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 42,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26098744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jadelyn/pseuds/Jadelyn
Summary: Jaskier died atop Niedamir's mountain, shattered by the cruel rejection of the man he loved more than anything.  Julian walked down the mountain, a man with no music left in him, and was forced to build a new life for himself.A year after the disastrous dragon hunt, Geralt visits a brothel in Novigrad where, on a whim, he asks for a man. To his shock, he finds himself confronted by a far-too-familiar face.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion & Original Female Character(s)
Series: What Dies Inside Us [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1999573
Comments: 313
Kudos: 732





	1. Temptation

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from the Norman Cousins quote: "Death is not the greatest loss in life. The greatest loss is what dies inside us while we live." 
> 
> With undying thanks to my beta readers Pearl09, eyesofshinigami, and dwarrowkings the comma-slayer and patron god of POV-switching!
> 
> The whole work is drafted, and I'll be posting chapters as I finish editing. The tags are mostly for slightly later chapters; things get Spicy pretty quick, and the last few chapters have a number of self-destructive behaviors and terrible life choices, including self-medicating with drugs and reckless behavior as a form of flirting with suicide. But I promise, everyone lives and there is in fact a happy ending!

“Do you have any men?”

He hadn’t meant to ask that. Wasn’t sure where the impulse had come from. But it was there, and Miss Anna only quirked an elegant brow slightly at the request rather than gasping in genteel horror as some might. Perhaps the evening wasn’t immediately ruined, then.

“Just the one. He’s not with a client right now, but let me go check with him first.” Geralt nodded acknowledgment and she swept away down the corridor. Such a response was par for the course, for him. Not all whores would be willing to take a witcher as a client. If this man wasn’t willing, perhaps one of the girls would -

“He said he’d be happy to.” Miss Anna gave him a sly smile as he handed over the coin. “Down at the end, turn left and it’s the first door on the right.”

At the end of the corridor, he hesitated a moment. There was something on the air, a scent - something familiar, yet not quite right. It set him on edge for a moment, but he shook it off and went to the indicated door. Giving it a cursory tap in warning, he walked in -

\- and froze, every muscle in his body locking tight enough that he could barely breathe, as the man turned around and the scent hit him full-force. Blue eyes sparkled with something between mischief and malice as they met his gaze.

“Hello, Geralt,” Jaskier said softly. “It’s been awhile.”

It took long seconds for him to remember how to breathe, how to speak. “Jaskier,” he said. He wanted to ask what the bard was doing here, what kind of game he was playing, where he’d been for the last year, but he couldn’t seem to get his tongue around the words. It was as though Jaskier’s name was the only thing he knew how to say.

“Ah, so you do remember me, then,” Jaskier said eventually, when it became clear that Geralt wasn’t going to say anything else. There was a slight edge under the flirtatious tone, keen as any blade. Jaskier closed the distance between them, and Geralt’s hands tingled with the craving to touch him, but he only reached past to push the door shut.

It was then, as Jaskier leaned past him with scant inches separating their bodies, that Geralt finally realized what had been off about the scent. The sandalwood-and-spice of the scent oils he favored was the same. The sweetgrass and salt of his skin was the same.

But the rosin and silk of his lute was entirely missing.

He considered the implications of that as he watched Jaskier walk over to the large, silk-clad bed. There was a coquettish sway to his hips, and when he turned around and sat on the edge of the bed the navy-blue robe he wore threatened - promised - to fall open. The tease of it set Geralt’s heart pounding.

“Well?” Jaskier asked. “Going to come join me?”

Geralt took a step toward him, but then stopped. The shock was starting to wear off, and his capacity for speech was returning.

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

Jaskier raised an eyebrow, then rather theatrically cast his gaze around the room, looked down at himself, and looked back at Geralt. “What does it look like I’m doing, darling?”

A low growl escaped his throat. “That’s not what I mean, and you know it.”

“Then perhaps you should say what you mean.” Jaskier reclined back onto one elbow, his other hand smoothing the fabric of his robe down over his thigh.

“ _Why_ are you here? Why are you doing this?” He had to force the words out from behind gritted teeth, Jaskier’s teasing display having exactly the intended effect. He took another step forward as though Jaskier had him on a string and was reeling him in.

Jaskier simply shrugged. “We all need to eat, my dear witcher.”

“You’re avoiding the question,” Geralt snapped. “You made a perfectly good living out there -” he flung an arm out in a broad gesture intended to encompass the twenty-two years of life out on the Path, “- for decades. If you didn’t want to travel anymore, you could’ve found a position in a court somewhere, or taken that teaching position at Oxenfurt you always talked about. So what the fuck are you doing _here_ , working in a brothel?”

“Whoring,” Jaskier corrected him mildly, but there was a hint of teeth in his smile. “You can just say it. Call it what it is.”

Another step forward. “Call it whatever you want to call it, just answer the fucking question already, Jaskier.”

The teasing light abruptly fled from those blue eyes. “Don’t use that name again. It’s Julian, now.”

That hit like a punch to the gut for reasons Geralt refused to examine. “Fine. Julian. Will you just answer the damn question?”

Jaskier - Julian - stood slowly and closed the last of the distance between them, until Geralt could feel the heat of his body through the clothes between them. “Do you know, darling, when the last time I played or sang was?”

Geralt shook his head, though he was very much afraid he did know.

A cruel smile bloomed across Jaskier’s - Julian’s face. “In Caingorn, the day before we left for the dragon hunt. I was working on a new song, do you remember? I never did finish it.”

Bowing his head, Geralt let the weight of that sink into his bones, heavier than anything he’d ever felt before. “Jaskier,” he whispered, “I’m s-”

“Don’t.” His head snapped back up to see Jaskier’s eyes blazing at him. Julian’s eyes. “I told you, it’s Julian. Don’t call me that again. And don’t you _dare,”_ he all but hissed, “don’t you fucking dare try to apologize. I am not willing to hear those words from you. Not now, not ever.”

The shock of such an adamant proclamation set Geralt reeling back half a step. “But -”

_“No.”_

“Fine, then.” The ice in Julian’s voice broke through the crust of shock, and suddenly there were words, all the words Geralt could possibly need. “Fine! Call yourself whatever you want, refuse my apology if you like, that’s your choice. But we both know this isn’t you. This isn’t the life you’re meant to have; this isn’t where you belong.” Despite his best efforts, a hint of pleading underscored his next words. “If it’s money you need, I can help, or...I don’t know. I just know this isn’t right. You shouldn’t be here like this.”

“You’ve never been one for destiny,” Julian shot back. “What do you care where anyone is _meant_ to be? Fuck _meant to be_ , fuck _belonging_. This is where I am. This is where I _choose_ to be, and what I’ve chosen to do. If you don’t like it, there’s the door. Ride out and never look back.”

Very slowly, very deliberately, he let his lips part, tongue darting out to moisten them in a sultry gesture that made a mockery of the absentminded gesture Geralt was used to seeing. “Or...I can give you what you came for. It’s up to you.”

Geralt’s breath caught sharply and he stared. Thoughts flickered through his head, rapid-fire: _I shouldn’t do this; it’s a terrible idea._

Julian bit his lip.

Geralt was on him faster than thought. Yanking the silk robe open, his hands roamed over Julian’s skin, gripping his hips and dragging him closer to press their bodies together. With a growl he nipped at Julian’s neck.

Julian let out a gorgeously needy little whimper at that, but a moment later gasped out “No marks.”

Reluctantly Geralt let go, licking up the column of his throat to rumble into his ear. “Can I kiss you?”

Another wonderful sound escaped him. “Costs extra.”

“I know.”

“Then yes,” Julian breathed. He tangled his hands in Geralt’s hair, tugged him up and kissed him almost desperately.

At any other time, Geralt might have felt self-conscious about the desperate keening sound that tore itself from his throat as their mouths met. But his mind was full of the discovery that Julian’s lips are just as soft as they’d always looked, and there was no room for anything else. Besides, Julian made a matching sound a moment later, so at least he could rest assured that the sensation of fulfilling a desperate craving long-denied, wonderful and awful all at once, was mutual.

Julian’s hands slid down the sides of Geralt’s neck, over his shoulders and chest, then closed tightly around fistfuls of his shirt and he tugged sharply. “This. _Off.”_ The hint of snarl riding the edge of his voice had no business being as appealing as it was. It called up an answering growl from Geralt anyway as he pulled back just far enough to strip off the offending garment and toss it carelessly aside.

The feeling of Julian’s mouth exploring the slant of his collarbone dragged a low groan from him. His hands tightened on Julian's hips as he moved lower, tongue flicking out to tease a nipple. "Jaskier," he sighed, letting his head tip back.

Only for the softly-exhaled word to turn into a yelp at the sudden sharpness of teeth biting down hard enough to sting. "Fuck," Geralt snapped, tensing. "What the -"

But the hard stare that met him when he looked down made him pause and think, and he realized - "Sorry," he said. "Julian. I didn't -"

Julian licked over the teeth marks, and Geralt suddenly forgot what he'd been about to say. Those soft lips moved lower as Julian sank to his knees. His hands came to the buttons of Geralt's breeches, fingertips grazing over the outline of his cock straining at the leather as he looked up coyly.

"It's all right," he murmured, nuzzling along Geralt's hip as he slowly undid the fastenings. "Just means I need to give you plenty of practice saying it." He drew Geralt's cock out, took him in hand. "Moaning it," he added with a wicked little smile. His tongue darted out to lap up the clear fluid already beading at the tip. "Screaming it," he whispered, hot breath washing over the sensitive flesh.

Geralt bit his lip on the frankly embarrassing whimper that wanted to escape. "Fuck," he managed to spit instead, hands tangling in Julian's hair as that oh-so-talented tongue swirled around the head of his cock.

"Ah-ah," Julian chided teasingly, then licked a slow stripe up the underside from base to tip as he dragged the tight leather breeches down Geralt's thighs and coaxed him to step out of them so they could be kicked aside. "My name isn't 'fuck'." Before Geralt could reply, Julian took just the head into his mouth and sucked hard.

The sound that escaped Geralt at that barely sounded human.

Julian pulled off slowly, letting go with a dramatic pop, and grinned up at him. "Say my name, Geralt," he said. "I want to hear you say it. Want you to say it when you beg me for what you want. Want you to scream it when you come."

"I don't beg," Geralt protested weakly. He wasn't sure which of them he was trying to convince. Then, "Fuck, Jas - Julian!" as he opened his mouth and took half of Geralt's length all at once. He could feel Julian's low chuckle more than hear it as he drew back, teasingly slow.

"Not yet," Julian agreed, lips brushing the tip of Geralt's cock as he spoke. "But you will."

The threat - _promise_ \- of that made Geralt tremble.


	2. Surrender

Julian felt the tremor run through him and smiled.

This time, when he took Geralt into his mouth, he kept going til the head was nudging at the back of his throat, savoring the filthy, wordless groan that got in response. He settled into a rhythm, tantalizingly slow, until several minutes later he felt Geralt's hands on his head tighten their grip just slightly, as though he wanted to push him down and was restraining himself.

"Julian," he breathed, a note of pleading Julian knew he'd never admit to in his voice.

Smiling inwardly, Julian drew back and lapped teasingly at his slit, moaning wantonly at the salt-sweet taste of the slick fluid welling there. Geralt shuddered and Julian could feel the tension in his hips as he stopped himself from bucking forward into the touch.

"So," Julian said, "how true are the rumors?"

"What - _ah_ \- what rumors?" Julian flicked his tongue over the ridge on the underside of Geralt’s cock, grinning to himself as it made the witcher stumble over his words.

"Witcher stamina. If I let you come down my throat, will you still be able to fuck me afterwards?" Julian nuzzled down Geralt’s shaft to lavish attention on his balls while he waited for a reply, looking up coquettishly from under his lashes as he did.

"Fuck, Julian," Geralt growled, though there was a hint of breathiness belying the gruff tone. "You're even more of a tease than I thought you would be. Yes."

"Oh good," Julian whispered, tucking away his conflicting reactions to the idea that Geralt had ever _thought_ about what he'd be like in bed, for later examination. "Then, my dear witcher, I believe I'm going to do just that, if it's all right with you."

"Yes. _Please_."

Julian had to bite back his own helpless gasp at the sound of that word, in that rough voice - at the sound of Geralt, asking, almost pleading.

"Say my name when you come," Julian ordered. "Scream it. I want to hear it." He didn't wait for Geralt's agreement before practically diving back onto his cock.

Only this time he didn't stop with the head of it nudging the back of his throat. He looked up, locked eyes with the witcher, and kept going until his nose was pressed into Geralt's belly, lips wrapped snugly around the base of his cock and the head of it buried in the tight passage of his throat.

Geralt made a strangled sound, hands clutching tightly at Julian's hair. His hips rocked forward despite his best efforts to remain still.

Julian gave him only a moment to savor it before he began to move again. He set a fast, almost brutal pace this time, fucking his throat onto Geralt's cock over and over, holding eye contact as he did so. Geralt stared back, eyes wide and pupils blown so huge there was only the thinnest ring of gold surrounding them, lips parted as he panted for breath. Desperate sounds, almost pained, escaped him with each downward stroke of Julian's head.

"Julian," he gasped. "Fuck! I'm close, Julian, I'm - going to -" His voice broke, his hands dragged Julian's head down til he was fully sheathed in his throat and held him there.

Julian swallowed around him, throat muscles squeezing tightly around his cock, and that was it. Geralt threw back his head and howled, shaking, as he came.

"Julian!"

Julian swallowed every drop as Geralt spent into his throat, almost overcome with his own pleasure at the sight, the sound, the feeling of having the witcher come apart for him like that. He wrapped a hand around his own cock, achingly hard, and squeezed tightly to push himself back from the brink.

At last Geralt eased back, withdrawing. His iron grip on Julian's head gentled, cradling rather than holding. He slid a hand down to cup Julian's cheek and ran his thumb over Julian's swollen, spit- and seed-slicked lower lip.

"Fuck," he rasped, staring down almost adoringly. "You're magnificent, Julian. Incredible."

"Ooh." Julian shivered. His voice was rough as he said, "Careful, Geralt. I'm already dangerously close after watching you come like that. And," he added, slowly getting to his feet, "I'm afraid I'm very much set on coming with your glorious cock in my arse, so do me a favor and don't sing my praises just yet, hm?" Without waiting for an answer he carelessly let the robe fall from his shoulders and went to the bed, beckoning Geralt to follow.

Which he did, of course, pressing himself to Julian's back and wrapping his arms around his waist. He nuzzled Julian's neck, scenting him with a pleased sigh.

Julian only laughed and subtly rocked his hips back to feel Geralt's cock, which had only half-flagged after his orgasm, already rising back to full hardness where it was pressed against him. "Well, Wolf?" he asked. "What do I smell like, hm?"

"Pleasure," Geralt growled against his skin. "Anticipation." His voice managed to drop even lower somehow. "Lust."

"Accurate," Julian agreed, and turned in his arms, kissing him. Geralt licked into his mouth in slow, languid sweeps, humming appreciation as he tasted himself on Julian's tongue.

When they broke apart a minute or two later, Julian let his lips trail back along Geralt's jaw until he was nipping at his earlobe. "Now," he whispered, "you can have me however you like. But if you're open to suggestions, I'd very much like to ride you."

The full-body shiver that rippled through Geralt at that suggested that he was, in fact, entirely amenable to Julian's suggestion. Julian chuckled, laying a stinging trail of kisses interspersed with sharp nips down the side of Geralt's neck. "I'll take that as a yes," he said, and drew back to nudge him gently. "Go, then. On your back."

Geralt did as he asked without a word or hesitation, which was quite possibly the sexiest thing he could've done just then. Julian paused before following him, looking over the collection of vials on the bedside table. He had a few he normally used, but they were all scented and he feared they might be a bit too strong for a witcher's enhanced senses. Finally locating the unscented oil he sought, he plucked it from the table and turned back to the bed.

Geralt was waiting, one hand propped behind his head, watching Julian through half-closed eyes. His other hand was wrapped around his cock, and he stroked himself languidly as he waited.

Julian groaned, looking down at him as he stood beside the bed. "Do you have any idea how gorgeous you are?" he demanded. "I should commission the greatest painter on the Continent to immortalize you on canvas, just exactly like this." Geralt twitched slightly at that, but Julian thought perhaps it wasn't entirely displeasure fueling the reaction. He decided to test his theory.

"You should see yourself," he continued. "Lying there like temptation incarnate." The shudder that went through Geralt was tiny, half-suppressed, but definitely there. "Waiting for me just as I asked, so beautiful, so _good_."

Geralt groaned quietly at that, hips pressing up and thrusting into his own hand. "Jas - Julian," he said, half warning and half plea.

"I'm here, darling," he murmured as he joined Geralt on the bed. He swung a leg over and settled himself astride Geralt's thighs, which were as taut and toned and perfect as the rest of him. Pouring a generous measure of oil into his cupped palm, he said, "Let me?" and nudged Geralt's hand away.

Geralt let go of his cock with a tiny nod, still inexplicably obedient to Julian's direction.

But Julian hadn't expected Geralt to take the vial of oil from him as he began to slick that glorious cock up. He watched, only half-attending to his own task, as Geralt brought his other hand down and uncorked the vial again. He coated his fingers in the oil and set the vial aside, then reached for Julian.

"Let me?" he echoed. Julian's breath caught.

"You needn't, you know," he said. "I'm already -"

Geralt looked up at him and licked his lips. "Even so," he said. "I want to."

And gods, how could he deny Geralt anything when the man was _looking_ at him like that and _asking_ for what he wanted so simply and directly? Feeling his heart thump in his chest, Julian nodded and let go of Geralt's cock, shifted forward til he was straddling his waist and Geralt could reach between his legs.

The pads of two blunt, calloused fingers circled his entrance teasingly. Julian whimpered and rocked his hips back against them.

Geralt laughed. "Eager?"

Julian nodded. "Yes," he breathed. "Geralt -"

Whatever he'd been about to say - he wasn't even sure himself what it would have been - vanished as those two fingers pushed into him. "Ah," he gasped, eyes fluttering closed. He pressed back against the pleasurable intrusion, wanting to feel it even deeper. "Oh, Geralt," he panted, "fuck. Your hands…"

Geralt chuckled again, low and satisfied. "What about them, Julian?" Geralt's free hand slid up Julian's spine, coaxing him down til he was pressed against Geralt chest-to-chest. His cock was trapped between their bellies; he could feel Geralt's sliding against his cleft with each rock of his hips. He whined wordlessly.

Without waiting for a proper answer, Geralt crooked his fingers and pressed against that spot inside Julian with unerring accuracy. Sparks shot along Julian's nerves and he cried out. His back arched, or tried to, but Geralt had a hand pressed between his shoulder blades and kept him pinned easily, unable to squirm or writhe. He could only lie there helplessly and take it, hands clutching the sheets as Geralt did it again, then again. "Nngh, fuck, Geralt, please!" Julian gasped.

The witcher gave a pleased hum beneath him and it rumbled through him, vibrated into his very bones, making everything a thousand times worse. Julian bucked uselessly against Geralt's restraining grip. "Please, Geralt," he groaned. He let his head fall forward, licking mindlessly across the broad planes of Geralt's chest, tasting the salt of his sweat. " _Please_."

"What do you want?" Geralt asked. His hand slid up from Julian's back into his hair, gripping a fistful and dragging Julian's head up to look at him. "Tell me. _Say it_." It started as a demand but ended as a plea.

"Fuck me, Geralt," Julian moaned. His blue eyes were hazy with lust as he stared down at Geralt's face. "Please, fuck me. I want it. Want you. Need it, need your cock inside me, please, _please_ …"

The sound that tore itself out of Geralt's throat was barely human. Feral. He yanked Julian down and captured his mouth in a brutal, messy kiss, biting his lip. Julian shook in Geralt's arms, whimpering, as he pressed in with a third finger. "Please," he chanted between kisses, over and over. "Please, please…please…"

At last Geralt took pity on him, withdrawing his fingers and releasing his grip on Julian's hair. He gripped Julian's hips and positioned him where he wanted him. Julian reached back and took him in hand, lined him up and began to slowly sink down, tossing his head back, mouth falling open in a soundless cry.

Geralt shuddered as his cock breached Julian's hole for the first time. "Gods, Julian," he said through gritted teeth. "You're so fucking tight."

"And…you're…" Jaskier seemed to lose his words for a moment as he slid the last couple of inches to take Geralt in him to the hilt. " _Fuck_ , you're huge."

A sly smile quirked Geralt's lips as he watched Julian adjust to the feeling of fullness. "I bet you say that to everyone," he said, then caught his breath when Julian rolled his hips a little, experimentally, sending a pulse of pleasure through him.

"Yeah," Julian admitted, grinning down at the witcher spread out beneath him. He leaned forward and braced his hands on Geralt's unfairly broad shoulders, then rose up a few inches and dropped back down. The friction of the movement punched a groan from both their chests. "But this time I mean it."

Geralt started to laugh, then gasped when Julian moved again. His hands tightened on Julian's hips, hard enough to bruise for an instant before he forced himself to gentle his grip. "Sorry," he said, "didn't mean to. No marks. I know."

But Julian just fixed him with a darkly smoldering stare and ground down onto Geralt as though he could somehow take him even deeper. He sat back and placed his hands over Geralt's, gripping hard over them. "Don't you dare hold back on me now," he demanded.

"But -"

Julian growled, leaned down and bit Geralt's lower lip hard. The coppery scent and taste of blood blossomed between them, and Geralt's hands spasmed tightly around Julian's hips as he bucked upward involuntarily into that tight heat.

"I said," he hissed, blue eyes burning, and bit along Geralt's jaw to his throat. "Don't. You. Dare."

"Fuck, Julian," Geralt gasped.

Drawing back and giving him a tiny, feral smile, Julian brought his hands back to Geralt's chest and began to move in earnest. He rose up and slid back down again and again, settling into a rhythm guided by Geralt's hands.

Julian made a show of it, of course - he was still a performer, after all, just of a more intimate kind than before. He arched as Geralt thrust up into him, showing off the sinuous curve of his spine; he let his head fall back to draw attention to the pale line of his throat. And all the while Geralt's hands never left his hips, digging in finger-shaped bruises on the tender skin.

He rode the witcher til his thighs shook. Liquid heat pooled low in his belly, those glorious sparks zinging along his nerves as each stroke pressed just perfectly against his prostate. And then a large, calloused hand wrapped around his cock, catching the slick precome he'd been steadily leaking onto Geralt's belly and smoothing it down along his shaft to ease the slide as the hand began to stroke him.

Julian began to shake, overcome by the combined pleasure of Geralt's cock inside him and his hand on him. "Ah, gods," he gasped. His eyes fluttered shut but he forced them open again, not wanting to miss even a single second of the delightful tableau beneath him. "Geralt, I - I'm close, it's too much, I'm gonna -"

Geralt bared his teeth and growled, low and insistent. He twisted his wrist at the top of each stroke, letting his palm swipe over the dusky head of Julian's prick. His golden gaze burned into Julian as he said, "Do it, Julian. Come for me. Come on me, c'mon, that's it, just -"

The almost guttural rasp of Geralt's voice, combined with those filthy, wonderful words, shoved Julian over the edge all at once. His spine bowed and he leaned back, hands reaching to brace himself against Geralt's thighs, and came so hard he saw stars, screaming Geralt's name as his spend painted the witcher's chest and throat.

Beneath him, the tight clutch of his body and the spasms around Geralt's cock had him two breaths from following. "Julian," he groaned, "I -"

"In me," Julian demanded breathlessly. He rolled his hips, grinding down onto Geralt's cock. "In me, in me, darling, fuck, come in me."

Geralt snapped his hips up once, twice more and cried out his name, every muscle drawn taut as the pleasure blazed and burned its way through him.

Julian shuddered at the feeling of it, Geralt's cock pulsing and filling him, hot and wet. "Yes," he said, "Like that, just like that, so good, _so good_ for me, Geralt."

The witcher outright whimpered at that, hips jerking involuntarily as if to fuck the last of his release deeper into Julian's body before they both fell still, gasping for breath.

A faint smile touched Julian’s lips as he gazed down at Geralt, taking in the sight of him languid and sated. Gold eyes half-closed, streaks of pearly fluid decorating that broad chest. The indolence combined with the mess created a wonderfully debauched sight and Julian sighed happily.

“I was wrong,” he murmured. “ _This_ is the sight that should be immortalized in art.”

Geralt’s eyes widened and he let out an unexpected laugh, summoning a matching chuckle to Julian’s lips.

"I'm a mess," Geralt pointed out wryly. " _That's_ what you'd see committed to canvas?"

"Oh, yes," Julian breathed. "This kind of mess is the good kind. Well worth remembering." He cocked his head, a devilish light sparkling in his eyes. "Though I suppose if you insist on getting cleaned up…"

Bending down, he swiped his tongue over Geralt's skin. He lapped up some of his own come, feeling rather than hearing the quietly appreciative sound Geralt made at that. Only instead of making a show of swallowing it down himself, Julian leaned over further and kissed him.

Geralt met his kiss eagerly, licking the spend from his tongue with a sound of wanton delight. His cock, still buried in Julian's arse, twitched noticeably.

"Ooh," Julian purred. He drew back and did it again, getting the same lovely reaction. "Like that, do you? Tasting me like that?"

With a low growl, Geralt's hips rolled beneath him, making Julian gasp.

"Ah, darling," he said breathlessly, "Not sure I'm quite ready for that again so quickly. But," he rushed onward before Geralt could apologize for it, "if you've got another one in you, perhaps…"

He rose up, letting out a small sound of loss as their bodies parted, and settled beside Geralt in the bed, propped up on one elbow. The witcher raised an eyebrow, as if to say, well?

"Touch yourself," Julian instructed, voice low and breathy. He leaned over as if to kiss Geralt, but hovered there just a hair's breadth away and murmured against his lips. "I want to watch you bring yourself off. Put on a show for me, darling."

Geralt whined deep in his throat, but did as Julian asked. He wrapped one hand around his prick, still slick with oil and his own come, and started to stroke himself. Julian rewarded him with a kiss for a moment before sitting back so he could watch, as he'd said he wanted to.

"Perfect," he said. "Yes, sweetness, just like that." Julian reached out and trailed his fingertips over Geralt's chest, tracing around a nipple. Geralt's breath caught slightly at that, and with a wicked little smirk Julian pinched his nipple, making him groan and buck upward into his own hand.

"You like that, hm?" It wasn't really a question. "So lovely and sensitive for me." He did it again, leaning down to suck hard on the other nipple at the same time.

It pulled a delightfully tortured sound from Geralt's chest, his hand speeding up as he worked his cock. "Perfect," Julian said, "just perfect."

Geralt squirmed at that. Julian watched, delighted, as his other hand trailed down to cup his balls for a moment before sliding further back and pressing against the sensitive spot just behind them. He hissed sharply, shoving his head back into the pillow, back arching and eyes fluttering closed.

"Beautiful," Julian said. "Oh, Geralt, you're so beautiful like this." His lips quirked as he savored the sound, half-objection, half-pleasure, his words drew from the other man. "Want some oil?"

Geralt's eyes flew open and stared up at him. Julian nodded toward where his hand was still disappearing between his thighs and gave him a sly, knowing smile. Geralt bit his lip for a moment, then replied, "Yes. Please." His voice barely sounded like him, the rough baritone gone tight and strained with pleasure.

Julian got the oil and helped slick his fingers for him, then watched avidly the way Geralt's face changed when he pressed a finger into himself. Chiseled jaw gone slack, lips parted and panting for breath, he looked desperate and needy in a way Julian had never seen before.

"Julian," he breathed, "please. I need...more. Your voice. Please."

Julian cocked his head and smiled. "You want me to talk to you while you get yourself off for me, is that it?"

"Yes. Please." Geralt shuddered as he worked a second finger in, savoring the stretch of it, the feeling of additional fullness.

How could Julian ignore such a polite request? Besides, he thought, it was immensely satisfying to look down at the witcher, working his cock and fingering himself, hanging on Julian's every word as he did.

"You're gonna be thinking of me next time you do this, aren't you?" he murmured, leaning down and nipping at Geralt's jaw. "Alone in your bedroll in some lonely campsite, you'll jerk that magnificent cock, remembering this. Imagining me there, thinking of all the filthy things I could whisper in your ear, just like this. Won't you?"

"Yes," he gasped. His hand moved faster.

"You'll finger your tight little hole like this, too. Maybe you'll imagine it's my fingers inside you, working you open, getting you ready to take my cock. Would you like that?"

"Nngh, _fuck_. Yes."

"Mmm, good boy. So good." Geralt let out a strangled groan at that, hips jerking sharply. "And you'll come screaming my name again, won't you?"

"Yes!" He sounded almost close to tears, movements growing erratic as his pleasure spiraled out of control.

"Show me," Julian whispered.

Geralt arched off the bed with the force of his climax, cock pulsing as he came, hot and messy, adding his spend to the mess already coating his chest.

_"Julian!"_ The word was torn from him in an agony of pleasure. It shouldn't be that good, some distant part of him thought dizzily. The third orgasm of the evening, only by the touch of his own hands. It was almost distressingly good.

But Julian's voice, that fucking _voice_ , filth and beauty all at once - fuck. It didn't matter how bad of an idea this had been, it was worth it for that alone.

He didn't notice Julian getting up and leaving the bed. By the time he was in full possession of his faculties again, Julian had already returned, damp cloth in hand. The feeling of Julian gently swiping the cloth over Geralt's skin was disquietingly familiar, calling up echoes of the way Jaskier used to tend to him after a fight but placing that association into this very different context.

Once Geralt was cleaned up he reluctantly stood and began to don his clothes. Julian, wrapped once more in the silk robe he'd been wearing before, sat silently on the bed and watched as pale skin and scars disappeared behind layers of black again.

At last, clean and clothed, Geralt turned and faced Julian again. Gold eyes roamed across Julian's face as though searching for something, though Geralt couldn't have said what he was looking for even if he'd found it. He opened his mouth to speak, but had no idea what to say, and then Julian beat him to it.

A slight smile crossed Julian's face, but it was tinged with darkness and had sharp, almost cruel edges.

"See you around, Geralt."

The memory of the last time he'd heard those words lanced through him and left him bleeding. Accepting the dismissal, Geralt took one last look at Jaskier - Julian - and nodded once in acknowledgement of a blow well-struck.

It took all his willpower not to turn and look back as he closed the door behind him.


	3. Returning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Despite his mixed feelings, Geralt comes back to see Julian again, but this session takes an unexpected turn.

It haunted him for weeks afterward. He dreamt of Jaskier - Julian - most nights. (Were they dreams of Jaskier, or of Julian? When he dreamed of them together by firelight in a dark forest, which man was he with? Jask...Julian had clearly drawn a hard line between the two, created a second self under this other name, but Geralt’s dreaming mind refused to acknowledge that.) In the dark of night in his lonely camp he brought himself off to the memory of that night, just as he'd said he would, burning up afterward with guilt when the wrong name tried to cross his lips as he came.

It was all tangled up in his head and he couldn’t unwind them, Julian and Jaskier, one from the other. Couldn’t reconcile the friend and companion of twenty years with the whore he’d fucked. Couldn’t tear apart his guilt at driving Julian into that life ( _killing Jaskier,_ some dark corner of his mind whispered, _for he would never have given up his music voluntarily; you took that from him as surely as if you'd broken his hands or crushed his throat ‘til he could no longer speak_ , and he swallowed hard to keep his stomach down) from his guilt at taking advantage of it to sate his own suppressed hunger at last.

Worst of all, he couldn’t shake the desire to go back and have him again. It was wrong, he knew. He’d never allowed them to become lovers before because he could never have given Jaskier everything he deserved from a lover: affection and intimacy and caring and love, openly shown. So what right did he have to take advantage of him - of _Julian_ , now that all it cost was coin?

The guilt and self-loathing sank into his bones and refused to be dispelled. And yet, the next time he found himself in the area…

He already hated himself. For what he was, for what he wasn’t; for the things he had done and those he hadn’t done.

What was one more sin added to the list?

* * *

Julian was lounging on the bed when Geralt entered. The robe was rose-pink this time, his chestnut hair charmingly tousled.

“I didn’t think you’d come back,” he said, toying with the sheets under his hand.

“Neither did I,” Geralt replied. He tugged his boots off and set them aside, then hesitated. Over the last few weeks he'd thought so much about this, fought himself over it until he was an aching, tangled mess of need inside. He didn't know what he wanted, wasn't sure if he would be able to find the words to ask even if he did.

Julian slid off the bed and came over to him, deft fingers unfastening the buttons of his shirt. It was a delicious mix of right- and wrong-feeling: the casual familiarity borne of hundreds of times that Jaskier had undressed him over the years, colliding with the fact that they were in a brothel where Geralt had paid for Julian’s company, not Jaskier’s. The contrast somehow made it both better and worse, and when Julian leaned in, paused with his lips a hair’s breadth from Geralt’s and made a soft questioning sound, Geralt didn’t hesitate. He captured Julian’s mouth, licking into him almost possessively, only drawing back long enough to let him pull off his shirt and toss it aside.

Julian made equally short work of Geralt's breeches and smallclothes, then pulled back and gave him a wicked little smile.

"On the bed," he instructed, nudging Geralt in that direction. "Face down."

Geralt raised an eyebrow at the presumption even as relief washed through him. "Aren't I supposed to be the one giving instructions here, not you?" The objection was only for form's sake, so that later he would be able to tell himself he hadn't been ready and willing to throw himself at Julian's feet from the instant he laid eyes on him.

The wicked smile turned into a smirk. "You can, if you like. But we both know you don't actually want to, don't we?"

"I…" Geralt found himself unable to muster any kind of argument to the contrary. Julian was right, but he wasn't supposed to know that. How the fuck did he -?

"Don't worry," Julian soothed him. "I know what you really need, darling. And you want to let me give it to you, don't you?"

They stared at each other for a long moment. Geralt realized he was biting his lip, a nervous reflex he thought he'd trained himself out of decades ago.

But then, nothing had really prepared him for this: for the knowing gleam in Julian's eyes, for feeling so _seen_ in a way that was both deeply uncomfortable and so good he never wanted it to stop.

"Yes," he finally admitted in a strained whisper.

"Good," Julian all but purred, trailing fingers over his bare chest before giving him another nudge. "Now: on the bed. Face down."

As he obeyed, he spared a moment to wonder how Julian knew just how welcome this sort of reversal would be. Because, well, Geralt is what he is, and most people take one look at him and make a whole host of assumptions about what he'll be like in bed.

And they're not entirely wrong, he enjoys that _too_. It's just that there's more to him than that alone. But nobody has ever guessed without being told - maybe nobody has ever dared to - except for Yennefer, and that doesn't really count. She's a mage, and like most of her kind doesn't put a lot of stock in the notion of privacy when it comes to other people's thoughts. As far as Geralt is concerned, the ability to eavesdrop on someone’s fantasies is cheating, and you can’t take credit for knowing your lover when that’s how you came by the knowledge.

But Julian, well - whatever he discerned, whatever he divined that made him confident that Geralt would welcome this, he gets _full_ credit for it.

Geralt felt the mattress dip under Julian's weight. He could almost hear Julian's smile as he coaxed Geralt's legs apart and settled between them, hands running over the scarred expanse of his back.

This, too, gave him another shock of right-but-wrong. How many times over the years had they positioned themselves almost like this? But this wasn't a rubdown after a hunt, intimate yet chaste. There was nothing chaste about this situation and they both knew it.

Julian's hands drifted lower, gripping his arse, pulling him open slightly. Geralt buried his face in his arms as though to hide from the feeling of vulnerability that rushed through him at that.

"Turning shy on me, witcher?" Julian's voice was light and teasing.

"No," Geralt said, a reflexive denial of vulnerability. The word trailed off into a low moan as Julian leaned down and brushed a kiss over the small of his back, then lower, delicately licking into the top of his cleft. The move was almost tentative, a hint or testing of the waters, but it was enough to have Geralt's hips rock backward involuntarily.

"Ooh," Julian murmured into his skin. "You like that, do you? Want more?"

"Yes," Geralt breathed.

Teeth grazed the round curve of one cheek, and Geralt made a faint noise at that, whether protest or not he wasn't sure. Before he could think about it, Julian's hands were tugging at his hips. "Up," he said, "bring your knees up under you."

Geralt went with it, let himself be positioned how Julian wanted, and wound up kneeling, legs spread, but with his shoulders and face down against the bed. He'd thought he felt vulnerable before, but this was orders of magnitude worse - or better, depending on how one looked at it.

"Julian," he said, muffled against the sheets.

"Shh," Julian said. "I know." Geralt wasn't sure how he _could_ know, given that Geralt himself didn't quite know what he'd been asking for. "You're doing so well, darling."

The words sent a shiver down his spine. Before he could think too much about why that was, Julian leaned in again and licked over his hole, and all capacity for thought abandoned him in a rush of sensation. He rocked back into it, blindly seeking more.

With a hum of satisfaction, Julian indulged him, tongue swirling and flicking over sensitive flesh. Heat poured through him with each touch and Geralt found himself whining, desperate sounds that grew abruptly louder when the tip of Julian's tongue breached the tight ring of muscle and pressed _into_ him.

"Fuck," he gasped, hands gripping the sheets as though to anchor him before the onslaught, "please."

Julian just hummed again and continued, alternately lapping at him and tongue-fucking him, deeper and deeper each time. By the time Julian brought a finger up and pressed against his spit-slickened rim, Geralt's thighs were shaking and his cock painfully hard and dripping onto the bed.

Julian kept at him like that, fingers - first one, then two - and tongue together until he was gasping and trembling, thrusting back against every touch. His entire body felt like it was on fire with pleasure. It was gloriously sweet torture. He never wanted it to end.

But then Julian drew back slightly and kissed his hip, fingers still moving inside him. "You're close, I can feel it," he murmured. "Can you come just from this?"

"I...don't know," Geralt replied. He was close, but…

"Hand on your cock, then," Julian said, "but don't come until I say."

Geralt reached down, took himself in hand and stroked slowly, careful not to get himself too close before Julian asked it of him.

"Did you touch yourself like this, the way I said?" Julian's breath ghosted hot over his skin as he kissed the dimples at the base of Geralt's spine. "Stroking your cock, fingers in your arse, thinking of me?"

"Yes," Geralt groaned.

"Good boy."

Geralt _shook_ , hips bucking hard into his own hand, then back onto Julian's fingers. An embarrassingly needy sound escaped his lips, barely bitten off before it could become outright begging: _tell me I'm good, Jaskier, Julian, let me be good for you…_

"Perfect," Julian whispered. "Fuck, you look so good like this. You're almost there, aren't you?"

"Yes. Julian, _please_." It barely sounded like his voice, wrecked and raw and pleading.

"You know what to do when you come for me, don't you?" Julian's hand sped up, fucking into him faster and harder.

Geralt's back bowed and he keened into the pillow. "Yes."

"Then show me." Without warning, Julian pushed a third finger into him and sank his teeth into Geralt's hip.

"Fuck, _fuck, Julian_ ," he cried as he came, shuddering and painting the bed beneath him with his seed.

Geralt shuddered when Julian slid his fingers out, leaving him empty and aching, and moved up the bed. Digging his clean hand into Geralt's hair, he tugged his head up from where Geralt had hidden his face in the pillow, turning him so Julian could see him.

Julian gazed down, enjoying the sight of Geralt looking so beautifully fucked-out already, just from Julian’s hands and mouth. He dropped a gentle kiss at the corner of Geralt's mouth before sitting up and enjoying the hazy look in Geralt's eye. "Gonna fuck you now," Julian whispered, running his fingers through Geralt's hair and down the back of his neck. "You want that?"

Geralt's eyelashes fluttered and he sucked quick, shallow breaths between parted lips. "Yes."

"Say it."

"I…" Geralt licked his lips. "I want you to fuck me, Julian. Please."

Julian gave him an indulgent smile. "Well, since you asked so nicely," he said as he returned to kneel behind Geralt. "But no touching yourself this time," he warned, uncorking the oil he'd taken from the bedside table and slicking himself up. "You'll come on my cock or not at all. Understood?"

A shiver ran through the witcher, whether at Julian's words or the tip of his cock pressing against his hole it was impossible to tell. "Yes."

"Good." Julian pushed forward, listening to Geralt moan as he was speared open on Julian's cock. "Gods, Geralt, the sounds you make," he breathed. "I love hearing you like this, so aroused, so needy."

Geralt buried his face into the pillow again to muffle the sharp cry that elicited, clearly embarrassed by his reactions.

"Oh, no you don't," Julian said, reaching forward and pulling his head up with a fistful of sweat-dampened white hair. "Don't you hide from me, darling. Let me hear you. Let me hear just how much you like having my cock inside you."

Geralt let out a choked sound that was almost a sob.

"Yes," Julian praised him, his other hand sliding up Geralt's back as he came to rest fully sheathed in him, hips flush against Geralt's arse. "Good, so good. Just like that."

Geralt trembled, feeling overwhelmed by the perfect fullness of having Julian inside him. "Julian," he groaned, eyes falling shut. Fuck, he'd _scream_ for him if it would make Julian call him "good" like that again.

"Tell me," Julian said. He rolled his hips slowly, teasingly, grinding against Geralt more than thrusting. "Tell me how good it feels. Having my cock inside you, you like it. You want it, don't you? Say it. Tell me."

"Feels so good, Julian," he gasped. The words welled up from some hidden place inside and spilled over in a rush, his usual control crumbling. "So good. So full. I need it, want more. Fuck. I've wanted this for so long…"

Julian's cock twitched inside him at that, and his hips jerked almost involuntarily, fucking into Geralt in short, fast strokes. "Yeah?" he prompted.

"Years." Geralt sounded wrecked. Julian felt a smug smile creep across his lips. "Wanted this for years, you inside me. Please, Julian."

"Oh," Julian groaned, "Oh, fuck, Geralt." He slowed his movements until he was giving it to him in long, slow strokes, pulling almost completely out before gliding back in, so careful and controlled as to be almost teasing. "Who knew you had such a mouth on you, hm? Such beautiful filth, just needing a good cock in your sweet little arse to set it free, isn't that right?"

Geralt let out a low, almost pained sound, but didn't speak.

Julian yanked sharply on the handful of Geralt's hair he was still holding, hard enough to make him grunt and rock back into Julian's thrusts. "Isn't it?"

"Yeah," Geralt replied, already half-gone on pleasure, "yes. Yes, Julian." He was only barely aware of his own words, shuddering as each thrust glided across his prostate and made him see stars. In that moment, Julian could've asked anything and he would've said yes. "More," he pleaded. He tried to pick up the pace himself, thrusting back against Julian, but a warning squeeze of the hand gripping his hip stilled him.

"Ah-ah," Julian admonished him, doing his best to keep his tone steady and commanding even though his voice was beginning to go breathy with his own pleasure. "Greedy wolf. Trying to take what you haven't been given. You'll get more when I decide to give it to you." Despite his words, he found his pace quickening, fucking into the tight, slick heat of Geralt's body almost recklessly. He gritted his teeth and tried to hold back. He wanted to hear and feel Geralt come around his cock before he finished.

Geralt fought to hold back the desperate whine that sought to escape his lips as Julian took him fast and hard, the way he’d craved, and failed. He forced himself not to move, to simply accept instead of trying to take. "Please," he said, thighs shaking from the effort to hold still while Julian fucked him. "Harder, please, I need it, I can take it -"

Grinning as he listened to the witcher beg for it, Julian snapped his hips forward on the next thrust, burying himself to the hilt so hard the impact rocked Geralt forward a little, forcing a sharp cry from him. "Like that?"

"Yes, just - fuck, just like that, Julian, please." Julian watched with pride as Geralt’s hands tightened further on the sheets, gripping almost hard enough to tear.

So Julian did it again, and again, wringing new and beautifully debauched sounds from the witcher beneath him with each thrust. Some part of his mind marveled at Geralt, normally so careful and controlled and stoic, letting himself come apart under Julian's hands, on Julian's cock.

The rest of him, though, was every bit as lost to it as Geralt was. Julian chased his own pleasure, speeding up until he was pounding mercilessly into him, looking down and watching Geralt's hole stretch around his cock. "Fuck, you feel so good," he groaned.

Julian caught his breath when Geralt _keened_ at that, tightening around him.

"Oh, you liked that, didn't you?" Julian said. "You like hearing how good you feel, how tight you are around my cock? How pretty your hole looks, stretched out for me to fuck? How you're gonna make me come inside you?"

The next sound was very nearly a sob. Geralt sounded absolutely ruined as he begged, "Julian, _please_. I'm so close."

"Good," he said roughly. "I want to feel you come around my cock. Come on, Geralt. Be a good boy and come for me."

Geralt went taut beneath him an instant later, a shudder ripping through all those gorgeous muscles as he crested. With a hoarse cry, he spent himself all over the bed beneath them, clearly pushed beyond words by the pleasure of it.

The sight and sound and feeling of Geralt coming undone pulled Julian over the edge with him. He groaned, spilling himself hot and wet inside Geralt, the spasms of his hole milking Julian's cock for every drop he had to give.

After, he slumped over Geralt, gasping for breath. "Fuck," he said finally, pushing himself up and hissing slightly as he withdrew. "Stay," he added, squeezing Geralt's hip for a moment before sliding off the bed. He marveled at the way Geralt obeyed the command so simply, waiting as Julian had told him to, as he brought back with him the plug he'd gone to get.

"I want to keep my spend inside you," he said as he slowly pushed the smoothly carved wooden toy in, watching Geralt's hole stretch around it and accept the intrusion. "Want you full of me for a little longer."

Geralt's wordless groan and the way he pushed back into it seemed to indicate he had no issues with this plan.

He was still pliant in the aftermath, easily following Julian's guiding hands to turn over and lie down on his back. Julian very considerately helped him avoid the mess he’d left on the sheets, but had a feeling Geralt wouldn’t have protested even if he hadn’t.

Julian looked down at the witcher, propped up on an elbow beside him. His eyes were still hazy, pupils blown huge and dark, and all the usual lines of tension had smoothed themselves from his features. He looked younger like this, Julian mused. Not that he ever looked _old_ , exactly, despite his actual age - but the blissful, peaceful daze gave him a strange softness that Julian found more compelling than perhaps he should.

That softness was confined to his face, though, Julian noted as he cast a wandering gaze over Geralt's body and saw that he was either _still_ hard, or already hard _again_. The infamous witcher stamina, of course. Julian's lips quirked wryly. Well. He couldn't have his client leave anything less than fully satisfied, could he?

A slight furrow reintroduced itself to Geralt's brow when Julian took that magnificent prick in hand, even as his breath caught slightly. "You don't have to -"

Julian considered his options for a split second before deciding to pursue those delightful hints of obedience Geralt had offered him. He snorted inelegantly. "Obviously not. I don't do anything because I _have_ to, witcher - I'm just not done with you yet."

Geralt acquiesced at that, as Julian had hoped he would, looking up almost meekly and biting his lip. It was an expression that did wonderful things to Julian, sending a jolt of arousal to his cock even though it was far too soon to do much about it.

"Then wha- _ah!_ " Geralt made a high, shocked sound as Julian tightened his grip on his cock sharply, aiming for just this side of painfully hard.

"You needn't concern yourself with that, darling," Julian cooed with a dripping solicitousness that was wildly at odds with the rough tug he gave Geralt's dick. "Just be good and lay there, hold still for me while I play with this pretty, pretty toy I found in my bed."

Decades of study and practice in the poetic and bardic arts _still_ hadn't equipped Julian with sufficient vocabulary to describe the sound Geralt made at that. His broad, scarred hands closed into white-knuckled fists around the bedding at his sides and his hips jerked up sharply, back arching beautifully.

Julian, seized by a sudden devilish impulse to see just how far Geralt would let him take this, made an irritated sound. "Did I not _just_ tell you to hold still? I didn't think it was such a complicated instruction but if you can't -"

"Sorry!" Geralt panted, forcing himself to stillness with a clear effort. "I'm sorry, Julian, I'll - I can -"

"Be good for me?" Julian finished for him, poisonously sweet.

"Yes." The word burst out in a near sob, gold eyes squeezed shut. "Yes, please, I can be good. _Please_."

Fuck, Julian thought, this was - Geralt gone all passive and yielding under his hands, _pleading_ so sweetly - oh, gods, it was _doing things_ for him.

A sudden growl burst from Julian's throat, shocking them both. He all but dove at Geralt, setting his teeth at the curve between neck and shoulder and biting down hard, shocking a yelp out of him. "You'd better," Julian said when he let go, feeling the shudder that ran through the witcher as he forcibly suppressed his body's instinctive desire to respond with movement.

Geralt bit his lip again and whined deep in the back of his throat as Julian's hand moved on his cock, fast and rough enough that it hurt almost as much as it felt good. The combination of pleasure and pain, the sharp ache where Julian bit along his throat hard enough to leave marks, the feeling of the plug shifting inside him with each twitch of his hips, all of it overlaid by the delicious ease with which Julian had asserted his domination over the situation - over Geralt - was overwhelming. His nails dug crescents into his palms as he fought to hold still and hold back, to not spend embarrassingly quickly, but he knew he was fighting a losing battle.

"Please," he groaned, not sure whether he was asking for mercy or asking for more.

"Please?" Julian mocked. "Please what, darling?" Geralt made a wordless sound, too overcome for actual speech. "I know you're not begging me to stop. You need this, don't you? Need it hard and fast, the burn of it to remind you of your place. Isn't that right, witcher?"

Geralt made a strangled sound, frantic with the force of his arousal, and nodded.

"And even if you didn't want it like this you'd still take it, wouldn't you? Take what you're given and be grateful for it like the needy little thing you are."

The keening sound that tore from Geralt's chest at that called up an answering moan of satisfaction from Julian.

"Such a fucking slut," Julian all but gasped, unable to tear his eyes away from the pained bliss written across Geralt's features. "Look how desperate you are. Go on, then. Show me how much you love this. Come for me, witcher."

"Julian…" It was more exhalation than word, morphing into an anguished cry as pleasure consumed him and Geralt crested, spilling hot pulses of liquid fire into Julian's hand where it curled a little too tightly around the sensitive, throbbing head.

Julian watched him in silence for a moment, marveling at the almost human-fast heaving of Geralt's chest as he panted, coming down from it. When he gauged Geralt to be capable of hearing and responding again, Julian spoke once more.

"Such a mess you've made, darling," he murmured. Geralt pried hazy golden eyes open and stared up at him. Julian gave a wicked little smile and brought his hand up to Geralt's mouth. "Be a dear and clean up after yourself, won't you?"

He watched avidly as Geralt did as Julian bid him. "What a beautiful sight," he murmured, watching the tremor that shook Geralt at those words. It was interesting, Julian thought absently as Geralt's tongue laved over his palm, how a man who always made such a point of needing nothing and no one, who kept himself at such remove from people that even the vilest insults and slurs failed to find their mark, could nevertheless be so affected by a bed-partner's praises.

There was a time when that contrast would've broken his heart. When he would've been deeply moved to see how his words could reach Geralt and affect him so.

But a year ago, on a mountain peak in Caingorn, Geralt had taken hold of the part of Julian that wanted such things and torn it to shreds. And Julian had been devastated, had mourned, had grieved - and had moved on. He wasn't going to hand his heart back over to the witcher to be destroyed again. So it was only with idle interest that he contemplated the mess of emotional repression and tangled needs that was Geralt of Rivia, nothing more.

Well. That, and an eye to how he could use that knowledge if Geralt came back again.

Julian shook off his musings as Geralt finished with his task. "Good," he praised him, just to watch the tiny shiver, then rolled away and got up. He plucked his discarded robe from the floor and shrugged it on.

"Um…"

He turned back to see Geralt sitting up a bit awkwardly but making no move to get dressed. "Something else you wanted?"

"No," Geralt said, his voice almost halting. "But, um, it's…the…" He squirmed slightly, breath catching as the toy shifted with him.

Julian watched, highly entertained, as the faintest hint of color graced Geralt's cheeks and he looked away abruptly.

"Keep it," he purred. "A gift. Think of me, when you play with it." He gave Geralt a salacious grin and a wink to go with it.

"Oh," Geralt mumbled, almost endearingly awkward. "All right. I, um. I will."

"If you come back again, bring it with you." Julian's smirk left no doubt as to how, exactly, he intended for Geralt to port it back.

The blush intensified, though it was still so subtle as to only be visible because of Geralt's usual pallor. Julian sat back down on the bed and watched, openly enjoying the sight of his careful movements as he dressed and prepared to leave.

And though the vindictiveness and lingering bitterness from the previous time had genuinely left Julian after their play this time, he nevertheless said it again, a reminder to the both of them just in case:

"See you around, Geralt."


	4. Reawakening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After Julian has a client turn violent on him, Geralt is there to put him back together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time for some h/c! Mostly just comfort, really. Julian was physically and sexually assaulted by a client, but the assault is not shown and only discussed in very general terms as part of describing Julian's injuries; this chapter is all about the afterward. Feelings will be felt...and promptly suppressed, of course, because they are idiots and we've still got 8 chapters to go.

Geralt had hoped if he went and had Julian a couple more times, he might be able to get it out of his system. Purge himself of the craving that dogged his steps, that he’d been denying for decades and could finally fulfill.

Instead, it was like a sickness. Every time it was perfect in the moment, Julian skillfully taking him apart and putting him back together in a multitude of ways. But the guilt and shame afterward always had him swearing to himself that it had been the last time, that he wouldn’t go back.

At least it got easier to call him by the right name, to start _thinking_ of him by it as well. Each visit helped to draw Jaskier and Julian apart in Geralt’s mind, spinning the cord connecting the two out thinner and thinner. Perhaps eventually he would get it thin enough to break and stop seeing the echoes of Jaskier beneath Julian when they were together. Maybe then he could stop coming back, stop grasping at the fading echoes of what he'd already lost.

He even told Julian he wouldn’t come back on several occasions. He said it the first time because he really meant it - or at least, he wanted to mean it - and Julian’s mild “All right, then” in reply felt like acid in his veins. So he said it the other times because he hoped the raw hurt of Julian's willingness to let him go might be enough to finally, finally free him from this awful need.

It wasn’t.

He kept coming back.

* * *

“That witcher certainly likes you,” Nadia said as Julian sat behind her on the bed, brushing her hair in preparation for putting it up in the intricate braids she liked.

Julian snorted inelegantly. “No,” he said flatly, “he doesn’t.”

Nadia couldn’t turn and roll her eyes at him, but it was clear in her voice. “He’s been back five times in the last three months, Julian. Asks for you every time, never anyone else.”

“Yes,” Julian said, “but that doesn’t mean he likes me. It just means he wants me. There’s a chasm the size of the Continent between those two things.”

Nadia laughed. “Sure there is, but what makes you say it’s one and not the other with him?”

Julian’s lips quirked in something between a smile and a grimace, even though he knew Nadia couldn’t see. “Let’s just say that him coming here wasn’t the first time we’ve met. And I can confidently assure you that Geralt of Rivia does _not_ like me, even if he enjoys fucking me."

"Hmm," Nadia said, then, "Well, charge him double next time then. For the extra work of pretending to like him even though he couldn't be arsed to do the same for you before."

Julian tossed his head back and laughed uproariously. “Oh, Nadia. You've got a mean streak. I like it." Composing himself, Julian returned his attention to his hands as he began separating the strands into sections. "So! Four braids, or five?”

* * *

“I’m sorry, sweetness, he’s not available tonight.”

Geralt clenched his jaw at the mental image that flashed through his mind, unbidden, of Julian in some other man’s arms. “I can wait,” he said tightly.

Miss Anna shook her head. “He won’t be available at all tonight. Perhaps one of the girls -”

“I’ll come back tomorrow night then.” Geralt started to turn toward the door.

“He won’t be available then either,” she said, sounding frustrated and oddly unhappy. “Not for a few days probably.”

He spun back at that. “What happened to him?”

Wide-eyed, Miss Anna rocked back a tiny bit before steadying herself. “It’s nothing,” she said, trying to sound firm and failing under the intensity of that golden stare. “He’s just not available for a few days, that’s all.”

Keeping a choke-hold on the part of himself that wanted to go racing down the hall to Julian’s room and damn the consequences, he forced his voice to be as gentle as he could get it. “Is he all right?”

There was the faintest hesitation before she replied, and it sent a wave of anxiety through him. “He’ll be fine. Just needs a couple days off, is all.”

“Can I see him? Please?” Geralt kept his voice soft with an effort, not wanting to scare her or intimidate her.

“He’s -”

“I don’t mean as a client,” he added hurriedly. “I just - I’d like to make sure he’s all right. Just to talk to him and see if there’s anything I can do to help.”

She pursed her lips, thinking about it.

“Here,” he said, taking out the coin he’d had set aside for this evening. “I’ll pay you for his company as though it were any other night. But I swear to you, I won’t try to do anything with him.”

After a terrifyingly long moment, she nodded slightly and accepted the money. “Fine. But if he tells you to go, you go - and if I hear you’ve tried anything, that’ll be the last time you visit this house. Clear?”

“Perfectly,” he said, shoulders slumping with relief. “Thank you.”

Miss Anna gave him an unreadable look. But as she walked away all she said was, “Be careful with him.”

Geralt kept his steps slow and quiet, suppressing the urge to run to Julian’s room. He didn’t bother to knock, simply opened the door.

The scents of distress, fear, pain, and blood assaulted his senses, nearly making him gag. Julian was laying on his stomach on the bed, wearing a red silk robe. When he heard the door open, he pushed himself up and twisted to look back over his shoulder. “Nadia, I said I don’t -”

Geralt closed the door behind himself with a soft click, staring at Julian. There were bruises on his cheek and eye. His lower lip was swollen and there were still traces of blood where it had split, hastily smeared away but not cleaned up properly. Worse still, there were red marks ringing his throat, as of someone’s hands squeezing too tightly. He looked as though he’d been crying.

“Julian,” he said, stepping toward the bed slowly as if trying not to spook a skittish horse.

Those blue eyes filled with tears suddenly. “Geralt. What are you doing here?” He sounded exhausted and his voice was ragged, nearly as rough as Geralt’s.

“Anna said you weren’t available and wouldn’t be for a few days. It sounded as though something had happened to you, so I asked if I could just…” he shrugged, uncertain. “Just check on you, see if you’re all right, if I can do anything to help. I was…worried.”

Julian caught his breath sharply. The tears spilled over. “That’s not - what _this_ is,” he said harshly, gesturing between them. “We’re not _friends_ , you shouldn’t be trying to, to check on me like you fucking care. What we have,” he said forcefully, though the force seemed directed equally at himself as at Geralt, “is a business arrangement. You’re not my...my lover. You are a _client_ paying for my _services_.” The tears fell faster as he choked back a sob.

“Hm,” Geralt said, tamping down hard on the hurt that flared in the wake of Julian’s words, then, “If it helps at all, I did pay her to allow me to see you, on the condition that I promise not to ask anything of you.”

Julian startled, nonplussed. “You did?”

Geralt nodded. “I did. Perhaps you could think of it this way: I am paying for your time right now, and the only service I ask is that you let me help take care of you.”

He stood, heart in his throat as he waited. Finally Julian nodded sharply. “All right. If that’s - if that’s what you want.”

Nodding again, Geralt took the last few steps and sat carefully on the edge of the bed beside Julian. He extended a hand, but didn’t touch him. “May I see your face?” he asked. “Please?”

Without a word, Julian carefully shifted onto his side, propped up on one elbow and facing Geralt. Closer up and full-on, the bruising looked even worse. And from the stiff way he moved, Geralt would bet there were other injuries beneath the robe.

“Will you tell me what happened?”

Julian shrugged. “Client got too rough with me, and when I tried to calm him down a little he went entirely the other direction, snapped and turned outright violent. Hit me a couple of times, tried to choke me.”

Geralt waited a beat. “What else?”

“What else, what?” Julian said, a little too defensively. “That’s all.”

“Is it?” Geralt asked dryly, tilting his head slightly. Julian’s eyes narrowed. “You’re moving too cautiously, which suggests to me that you’ve got other injuries you’re hiding. And…” he leaned in a little closer, nostrils flaring slightly as he took a deep breath, “...you haven’t gone and bathed since it happened. Which is the first thing you’d have wanted to do, unless you had a reason not to. Such as, for example, not wanting to disrobe where anyone might see whatever injuries you’re hiding.”

Julian had felt frustration rising in his chest throughout the witcher’s recitation of supporting evidence, but he held it in check until the too-knowing tone in which Geralt presented his conclusion scraped at Julian’s temper a little too deeply. Without thinking, he snapped, “You’re not as smart as you think you are, Wolf, you only thought of one reason and missed the other one. Like, say, not feeling up to fucking _walking_ anywhere just now.”

The look in Geralt’s eyes flared suddenly, fury at the client who’d hurt him mixed with concern and sympathy. _Shit_ , Julian thought. He hadn’t meant to say that.

But surprisingly, Geralt didn’t growl about it. He was angry, that much was clear, but seemed to master it surprisingly quickly. There was only a slight roughness in his voice when he asked calmly, “You can’t have a tub brought in here for you? If it’s a question of hands to do the work, I can take care of it. Just need to know where the tub is and where to get the water from. Doesn’t even need to be heated, I can igni it.”

Julian shook his head, ignoring the tiny part of his heart that was cooing disgustingly over the offer and feeling all mushy about it. “We’ve got two private bathing-chambers down the end of the hall, but the tubs are built into the floor. Can’t be moved.”

There was silence for a moment, then Geralt looked down and said, very quietly, “You don’t have to walk that far. I could carry you. If you’d let me.”

Julian’s breath caught on a near-sob and the tears welled up again. His emotions were far too raw and too close to the surface right now, especially with Geralt here, unexpectedly solicitous and trying to help. He'd thought he was entirely over his love for the witcher, but it seemed now that there was something left after all, some tiny kernel buried deep beneath snow and ice - and Geralt's gentle determination to care for him was threatening to thaw the ice away and set the seed to growing anew. It was dangerous, he knew. He should send him away.

But that tiny, traitorous bit of him didn’t want to. It wanted to bask in this unexpected tenderness. It wanted to see what would happen if he allowed this to continue, if perhaps the seed could grow and blossom anew.

_I am weak, love, and I am wanting…_ He hadn’t finished writing that song, but there was a reason he’d gotten _that_ line written before he stopped.

He gave Geralt a tiny nod. “All right. Go check with Anna first to make sure one of them is available.”

Geralt’s head snapped up and he stared at Julian as if he didn’t quite believe what he’d heard. Julian held his gaze in silence for a long moment, then Geralt gave him the subtle almost-smile he’d always treasured so much and got up.

“I’ll be right back,” he said.

When Geralt reached the front room of the brothel, Miss Anna was talking with a client. He waited until she was done, and she turned to him, her gaze wary. “What is it?” she asked.

“Julian’s agreed to take a bath and get properly cleaned up. Need to know if one of the bathing rooms is free right now.”

A small smile played at her lips. “Good! Glad to hear it. They’re both open, use room 1.”

When he relayed the message to Julian, it actually drew a small smile from the man. “That’s the bigger of the two,” he explained. “Normally we use the other one so the nicer room is available for clients if they want it. She’s being extra-nice by letting us use it.”

That subtle almost-smile was there again. Julian watched it, trying to ignore the fluttering in his chest. “That’s good,” Geralt said. “So -” He stepped closer to the bed, reached for Julian, and hesitated. “May I pick you up?”

Julian cocked his head, wondering at the witcher’s caution. Geralt had always been more of the _grab first, ask permission later or maybe never_ type when it came to manhandling Julian. “Why are you asking me before you do anything all of a sudden? You’ve never been like that before.”

The laugh Geralt let out was short and sharp; he almost seemed startled by it himself. There was no real humor in it. “You want the honest truth? Because you only barely let me stay, and I don’t want to fuck it up, do something you don’t like and make you send me away.”

Julian looked up at Geralt, who met his gaze steadily, uncertainty and hurt blazing with astonishing clarity in those golden eyes. It was almost painful to behold. Julian looked away first, looking down to where Geralt’s hands had fallen back to his sides. “Well,” he said quietly. “All right, then.”

Geralt still hesitated. “All right, you'll let me stay, or…?”

Julian smiled sadly, beckoning to him. “Yeah, but also this. C’mon.”

Geralt was so careful in picking Julian up that it almost hurt. He couldn't help remembering the time with the djinn and the way Geralt had flung him over his shoulder, comparing that to the way he now cradled Julian close against his chest with one arm behind his back and the other beneath his thighs. Looping an arm around Geralt’s neck, he laid his head on the witcher’s broad shoulder and tried not to think about it. He didn't want to start crying again.

When the robe came off in the privacy of the bathing-room, Geralt went utterly still, staring at Julian’s arm. After a long, tense silence, he spoke.

“You didn’t mention him having a knife.”

Julian squirmed awkwardly, then stopped when it hurt other, more tender areas. “Um. Yes. That. It was only just right at the very end of things, I had already yelled for Michal - Anna has someone here for security most nights, just in case of situations like this - and the guy wasn’t really, you know, going for _me_ with it? He grabbed it to fight against Michal, it was just sort of - he slashed at me in passing mostly and I was able to block it with my arm. The bleeding stopped pretty quick and I didn’t want to worry the girls. So I just kind of wrapped it up a little and that was enough.”

Geralt let out a slow, careful sigh. Julian knew him well enough to recognize that he was using it to push down a not-insignificant amount of anger. Surprisingly, though, he didn’t explode. He didn’t snap, didn’t even growl. He just silently helped Julian into the tub, steadying him with gentle hands until he was settled in the water.

“Temperature all right?”

Julian shrugged. “Could be a bit warmer, but it’s all right. No need to trouble yourself with -”

“How much warmer?” Geralt plunged a hand into the water and a burst of orange light flickered around his fingers.

Julian groaned as the wash of heat surrounded him and sank into his bones, letting his eyes fall shut. “There. Just like that.”

There was a splash as Geralt withdrew his hand and shook the water off, then silence. Julian cracked an eye open and watched him poke through the jars of infused salts on the sideboard, opening and sniffing a couple of them before picking two. Kneeling beside the tub, he opened both and held them out for Julian’s consideration.

“Lavender and chamomile, for soothing the aches, and rose.”

Julian sat up and leaned over, breathing the mingled scent in. “Rose for…?”

Geralt met his eyes briefly, then looked down at the delicate jars looking so incongruous in his large, scarred hands. He shrugged. “Because you like it.”

Julian’s breath hitched, just a tiny bit, but enough that Geralt’s gaze snapped up to meet his again. “You, uh…” Julian cleared his throat. “I didn’t know you’d noticed.”

Geralt gave him an unreadable look. “I noticed.”

It was Julian who looked away first, this time. “Those are good,” he said, leaning back against the wall of the tub. “Thank you.” The scent began to surround him as Geralt tipped a generous measure of each into the water. He breathed deeply of the scented steam, feeling himself beginning to relax just a tiny bit.

Until it occurred to him that if _he_ could smell it that strongly, it had to be absolutely _cloying_ to Geralt’s senses. He opened his eyes halfway and watched as Geralt went back to digging through the bottles and jars for something else. The witcher gave no sign of being bothered - but then, he wouldn’t. He never did.

Julian found a faint smile tugging at his lips as he closed his eyes again and leaned back. For years he’d restrained his preferences in scents for the sake of Geralt’s overly-sensitive nose. It was...nice, in a way, to see Geralt willing to reverse that by putting up with things he’d find overwhelmingly scented for the sake of Julian’s enjoyment of them. The tiny, perpetually-hopeful corner of his heart sang, happily latching onto the thought.

_A little more ice thawed. The seed could almost feel the warmth of sunlight._

“Where do you keep your soaps?” Despite having not heard a sound, Geralt’s voice was _right next to him_. Julian’s eyes flew open and he jerked up and stared, wide-eyed.

“Damn it, Geralt. You can’t sneak up on a man like that,” he scolded, placing one hand over his rabbiting heart. “How does a man your size move that _silently_ , anyway?” It was an old, familiar complaint, and Geralt answered as he always did.

“Not a man.” Only this time he reached out and tapped a finger against Julian’s jaw when he said it, smiling faintly as he did.

It took a few seconds for Julian to remember his next line as he stared, captivated and charmed - and not a little baffled - by this absolutely unexpected flirtatiousness. “Still, though,” he said finally. “Now, what were you asking about soaps?”

“Where yours are,” Geralt said. “None of the ones in here are yours. Are they in your room?”

Julian blinked. “I - how do you know they aren’t mine?”

Geralt gave him a patient look. "Scents are wrong.”

Oh. He should’ve expected that. Julian shook his head a little, smiling. “Of course. Don’t know why I asked. Um, yes, in my room - the shelves on the vanity. Bring the rose and orange peel one?”

With a nod, he stood and walked out, leaving Julian to his bath for a moment.

* * *

Geralt closed the door behind himself and had to pause in the hallway for a moment just to breathe, letting the unscented air - or less-scented, at least - clear his head, which was starting to pound slightly. And it was only going to get worse with the scented soap, he knew.

Didn’t matter, he thought with a mental shrug as he walked back to Julian’s room to fetch the soap. Julian had always loved scented baths and soaps and such. He would find the salts and soap scents comforting. Geralt could cope with a headache, for that.

* * *

Julian picked his head up when he heard the door open, his heart giving a sharp thump, but it was just Geralt coming back with his soap. He heard Geralt walk behind him and settle on the low stool next to the tub and waited, expecting the soap to be handed over his shoulder. Instead he startled slightly when an already-lathered cloth passed over his back and Geralt began to wash him with gentle, careful hands.

He paused for a moment when Julian jumped, leaning forward enough to meet his eyes and looking at him in a silent question. _Is this all right?_ Julian, smiling slightly at further evidence of the witcher’s newfound caution in physical contact with him, nodded. Geralt gave him a brief half-smile before returning to his task. Julian let out a low groan at the feel of Geralt’s fingers massaging Julian’s scalp and found himself thinking back to countless times their positions had been reversed. No wonder Geralt had stopped arguing about Julian doing this for him, if Julian had been half as good at it as he was.

Once he was clean, Geralt broke the silence again. “Do you have any healing supplies here?”

Julian shook his head. “I don’t. I don’t think Anna does, either. We’d usually just go to a healer if we needed one, or call them in if we need tended to here.”

“Hmm,” said Geralt, then, “if you’d be all right on your own in here for a few minutes, I could go back to the inn I’m staying at and get mine.”

Cocking his head, Julian regarded the witcher quizzically. “You...still carry human-safe healing supplies?”

_The seed shivered, began to crack open._

Geralt looked away. “Hm.”

_Stop that_ , Julian told his heart when it tried to skip a beat. “All right. Yeah, I’ll be fine here. Give the water a bit of heat before you go?”

A flick of the fingers and another spark of orange light later, Julian was surrounded anew by that glorious warmth, watching Geralt walk away.

* * *

Geralt sucked in huge gulps of cold, fresh night air as he left the Lotus. Which said something about just how smothering the scents had been in that bathing chamber, since ordinarily he would never in a million years have described the air of _any_ city as “fresh”. Still, it helped the throbbing behind his temples subside somewhat, and that was sweeter than any scent.

He set a quick pace back to the inn, not quite willing to risk scaring anyone by outright running but not wanting to leave Julian alone for too long. The supplies were down at the bottom of his pack; he dug them out and tried not to think about the soft look Julian had given him when he’d admitted to still carrying the healing supplies he’d originally acquired for Jaskier's sake.

* * *

When he got back, after pausing for one last clear breath before venturing back in, Julian appeared to be dozing. His head jerked up at the click of the door closing behind Geralt, and for a brief instant his eyes were wild and frightened before he seemed to recognize his surroundings and registered who he was looking at.

Setting aside the robe he’d stopped to grab from Julian’s room when he dropped the bandages and salves off, Geralt went and knelt beside the tub again. “All right?”

Julian took a deep breath. Geralt could hear his heartbeat slowing little by little as he let it out carefully. “Yeah. Help me up?”

It didn’t take long to have him up, dried off, and wrapped in the soft grey robe. Julian all but melted against Geralt’s chest when he picked him up to carry him back to his room, and Geralt allowed himself to take the opportunity to duck his head and breathe the scent of Julian’s hair, letting that single scent overwhelm and filter the oppressively-scented air a little bit as they left the bathing-chamber behind.

The wound on Julian’s arm was a straightforward slice, not deep enough to need stitches. Easy enough to tend, only needing salve and a bandage. After that, Geralt gently smoothed a bruise-healing balm over the marks on Julian’s face and throat before pulling out a third salve and hesitating.

“What?” Julian had clearly noticed his hesitation.

“Well,” Geralt hedged, “put it this way: your lovely bottom needs chamomile rubbed on it, and I don’t want to assume you’d be comfortable with me doing it for you. If you’d rather tend that injury yourself, I can step out and give you privacy, or -”

“Geralt, you idiot,” Julian said fondly, shaking his head. “First of all, we’ve seen quite literally every inch of each other by this point - even more so now than before. Secondly, you do remember I fuck people for a living now, right? Shame was never exactly a problem for me before, but I’m not sure I’m even _familiar_ with the concept anymore.”

Julian watched as the witcher’s face did something complicated when he said that, twisting in an expression that seemed to be equal parts amusement, guilt, and something else. Longing, perhaps? Julian thought perhaps that was what longing might look like on Geralt's face, if it ever made an appearance there.

_A tiny shoot of green pierced the surface and began to unfurl._

"And third,” Julian continued, “did my ears deceive me, or did _you_ just _make a joke?_ You _are_ Geralt of Rivia, yes? Wait. Quick, find me some silver, I think my witcher has been replaced by a doppler."

Geralt scowled at him. "Shut up, Ja- Julian."

Julian's traitorous heart turned over in his chest, and for a moment he wrestled with the insane impulse to correct him, to let himself be Geralt’s Jaskier, the witcher’s bard again.

He kept the turmoil off his face as he slammed a mental door on that urge, _hard_ , and simply replied, "Ah, never mind. There it is. It's definitely you."

Golden eyes narrowed at him. "Do you want help with this damn salve or not?"

Julian smiled and laid down on his belly, head propped on his folded arms. "Yes, darling. Please."

Geralt ignored the way his hands shook as he moved the robe aside and unscrewed the top of the jar of salve. The words pounded into his skull in time with the muted pulse of the scent-induced headache: _my witcher._

It didn't mean anything. Couldn't mean anything.

_My witcher._

It was just how Jas - Julian talked. He'd always been extravagantly affectionate, prone to ridiculously overblown turns of phrase.

_My witcher._

It wasn't even true. He'd never been Jas - Julian's anything.

_My witcher._

Just as Jas - Julian had never been Geralt's anything.

_My witcher._

And it was better that way. He had nothing to offer the man, as Jaskier or as Julian.

_My witcher._

But before he could fight himself on it any further he was carefully spreading Julian's arse, and the sight of his hole, still swollen, red-raw and brutalized, effectively drove all other concerns from his mind. A surge of seething rage washed through him and he gritted his teeth. Right now, Julian needed his care, not his anger. So instead of storming out and going after the bastard's blood, Geralt dipped two fingers into the salve and carefully applied it to the abraded flesh.

Julian hissed. “I know,” Geralt said quietly. “It’ll sting for a moment, but then it will numb the pain.”

Sure enough, after a few seconds had passed, some of the tension began to leave him. “Oh,” Julian murmured. “Yeah, that’s...that’s better.” He was beginning to sound sleepy, almost half-drunk.

Geralt capped the salve and set it aside, smoothing the robe back down to cover Julian. “Hey,” he said. “Julian.”

Julian was half-aware of Geralt saying his name. He picked his head up enough to meet Geralt’s eyes. “Hmm?” Hearing the witcher’s iconic sound from his own lips struck him as extraordinarily funny in his drowsy state. He giggled sleepily. “Sorry. ‘s your line.”

Geralt’s lips twitched. “It’s all right, I’ll forgive you this once. Come on, Julian. Let’s get you under the blankets, get settled in for the night.”

Julian went along easily, letting Geralt arrange him in the bed, until he suddenly realized that Geralt meant to leave and let him go to sleep. Abruptly he pushed himself up, staring wild-eyed at Geralt. “Geralt,” he gasped.

One large, calloused hand came up and pressed against his cheek, grounding him. “I’m here,” Geralt said. “What’s wrong?”

Julian looked away, flushing with shame. “It’s stupid,” he said. “Sorry. I - I’m fine.”

Geralt just looked steadily at him. “Fuck that,” he said, “nothing stupid about it. You’ve had a shit day. Can’t expect yourself to instantly be fine after what happened. Just tell me: what do you need?”

The bluntness of it, the combination of tender and brusque in the way he said it, was familiar enough to soothe him a bit. “I just...I don’t…” Julian couldn’t bring himself to say it.

“Would you like me to stay?”

Gathering his courage, Julian looked up and met Geralt’s eyes. There was nothing there but gentle concern, even fondness. No judgment, no derision.

He offered the witcher a crooked smile. “You’re better at reading people than you like to pretend.”

Geralt let out a soft huff that was almost a laugh, but not quite. “Mostly just you.”

_Leaves uncurled. A single bud appeared._

An oddly heavy silence fell between them for the space of a few heartbeats.

“It’s just…” Julian ventured, unable to bear the weight of that silence any longer, “I don’t want to be alone. It’s…” he swallowed hard, “...I feel vulnerable. I can’t relax.”

“All right,” Geralt said. “I’ll stay and watch over you, then. Nothing and no one will hurt you while I’m here.” He settled himself beside Julian, sitting up and leaning back against the headboard. “You can rest safely. I promise you that.”

Something shaky and hurting settled in Julian’s chest. He laid back down as Geralt put out the lamp with a quick twist of his fingers. “I know,” he whispered into the darkness. “You always keep me safe.”

Julian tried to go to sleep. He was certainly tired enough to sleep for a full day and then some, he felt. But every time he closed his eyes, the face of that client, distorted by rage, flashed before his mind’s eye and jolted him back to wakefulness.

“Geralt,” he said, voice shaking.

“Hm?”

“Can you...can you talk to me?” Before Geralt could answer, Julian fell into nervous babbling. “I know, not really your, um, your thing. But I just, I can’t settle, and I keep seeing - him, and if I had something I could fix my mind on for a distraction maybe I could fall asleep. Fuck. I shouldn’t have asked you. I mean, of all the stupid things to ask of you, of all people, talking? Sorry. Forget I -”

“Julian.” Geralt’s fingers pressed over his lips and silenced him, not ungently. “It’s all right. I don’t really...know a lot of stories, but - what would you like me to talk about? I can try, at least.”

Appallingly sentimental tears welled in Julian’s eyes at the simple earnestness of Geralt’s reply, his willingness to try something wildly out of his usual skillset, simply because Julian had asked it. He swallowed hard. “I dunno. Just - maybe tell me about some of the jobs you’ve done recently, or something.”

“Hm.” A beat of silence followed while Geralt considered the request. “A few weeks ago, a town up in the mountains put out a notice of a werewolf. But when I got there and began asking around, something wasn’t right. The choices of prey, the way it made its kills - it was close to a werewolf, but not quite.” As he talked, his hand came down and began to stroke Julian’s hair slowly, rhythmically, as one might pet a cat. “It was only making kills during the full moon, which meant it was probably someone who had been cursed or turned, not born a therianthrope. So I bought out the local apothecary’s stock of wolfsbane and went out on the next full moon to look for the creature.”

“Did you find it?”

“Hush,” Geralt admonished him. “You’re supposed to be trying to sleep. I did find it, but I also found out why it had seemed just a little off for what I’d have expected of a werewolf. It was actually a werecat. Which, unfortunately, made all the wolfsbane a total waste of money.”

Julian wanted to ask what had happened, but he knew Geralt would just shush him again. So instead he worked one hand free of the blankets and reached out to rest it on Geralt’s thigh in silent thanks.

“But I didn’t want to kill it, since it was created, not born, which meant it could potentially be cured. Instead, I sought to fight it without harming it too much - or letting it get the better of me, either - until sunrise, when the moon’s grip would let go and it could turn back. Come daylight, I was further surprised to find that the werecat was a woman, and as it turned out she had been cursed to that shape after declining the local Duke’s interest.”

“The Duke, of course,” he said wryly, “was the one who had hired me to kill her. A tidy wrapping-up of his problem. They never think I’ll discover the plots they’re trying to use me in. I’d be insulted, if I thought it was a comment on my intelligence rather than simply being a product of their own self-centered stupidity.”

Already half-asleep, Julian’s lips merely twitched slightly. He could count on his hands the number of times he’d gotten to experience that dry sense of humor over the years, and he treasured every time.

As he dropped off into sleep, lulled by the low rumble of Geralt’s voice continuing into a tale involving both a bruxa and a fleder, it occurred to him to wonder at Geralt’s unusual verbosity. The man’s normal idea of “telling the story of a job” was “there was a monster, I killed it, I got paid/didn’t get paid,” and yet here he was, actually spinning a coherent tale out of events for once. In the final split second before his exhaustion carried him away, he thought: _it’s because I asked him to. Only for that. For me._

He fell asleep smiling.

_The flower burst into vibrant bloom. Buttercup petals, golden as a witcher’s eyes, shone in the darkness behind his eyes as he drifted off._

\---

Julian blinked himself awake to sunlight through the curtains and only mildly aching wounds.

“Good morning.”

Startled, Julian twisted around to meet Geralt’s golden eyes watching him with an odd fondness. Despite everything, the sound of the witcher’s quiet breath beside him in bed was still a familiar enough sound that he hadn’t even registered his presence until he spoke.

“You’re still here.”

Geralt nodded. “I told you I’d stay.”

“You didn’t…” Julian looked at him more closely, noted the faintest shadows beneath his eyes, a tiny bit of tension under his jaw. “You didn’t sleep at all. Or meditate.”

That got a raised eyebrow. “I told you I’d keep you safe. Have to be conscious to do that.”

_Lie down, get a couple hours of sleep before you go._ The words trembled on the tip of Julian’s tongue. He _wanted_ to offer.

But the night before - it had been an entire exercise in undermining the boundaries he’d so scrupulously kept over the last few months each time they saw each other. It had been good, so very good, and Julian couldn’t bring himself to regret it, but he had to remind himself that it wasn’t _real_.

He, of all people, knew how far Geralt would go out of his way to help someone who’d been hurt and needed help. That was all this had been, he was sure of it, and he couldn’t let himself risk Geralt’s rejection all over again by letting himself hope for more. He couldn’t let one night, however comforting, undo all the work he’d done to move on from Geralt of Rivia.

And if he wanted to have even the slightest hope of keeping things as they had been, Julian needed to start reestablishing those boundaries _now_ \- or at the very least he needed not to undermine them further by extending invitations better suited to a friend or lover than a client. Geralt had paid to spend the night. The night was over. It was time for him to leave.

So instead, he simply sat up and smiled at Geralt, his expression a little too tender even as he strove for bright and unaffected. “Thank you,” he said, “for your help last night. I’m feeling much better today. I really do appreciate it.”

There was something guarded rising in those inhuman eyes as he spoke, banishing the unbearable softness that had first greeted him upon waking. “I’m glad,” Geralt said, almost cautiously, as though sensing Julian’s attempt at withdrawal. When Julian didn’t say anything else, Geralt stood and stretched. “Well,” he said into the increasingly awkward silence, “I should be going, then. Unless you need anything else?”

It was the closest Geralt could come to asking Julian to let him stay. Julian knew it, and he knew Geralt expected he would know it.

He still didn’t respond to it. He shook his head, not trusting his voice to stay steady.

The broad shoulders slumped infinitesimally. If Julian hadn’t spent more than half his life making a study of the man, he wouldn’t have noticed it. With a sharp nod, he turned toward the door.

_See you around, Geralt._ Julian tried to force his tongue to shape the words. It was how he always bade Geralt farewell at the end of their assignations - the first time, as a deliberate reference to what used to be and what had been broken that day on the mountain, calculated to hurt. Each time after that, it was as a reminder more to himself than anything else, to keep it just business between them.

But he couldn’t bring himself to say it, not after all Geralt had done for him.

“Til next time, Geralt.”

The witcher’s head snapped around and the sudden intensity in his eyes pierced straight through Julian. Hope? Hurt? Something else?

Geralt still didn’t speak, though. He simply nodded again and slipped out, leaving Julian alone with his tangled emotions and confused heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nadia has joined the party! She's holding onto Julian's brain cell for him, since he's not using it right now. Roach probably has Geralt's.


	5. Pining

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Julian struggles with his renewed feelings for his witcher.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My, my, would you look at the time - it's hurt the bard o'clock.
> 
> Oh, who am I kidding? It's _always_ hurt the bard o'clock.

“Why do you keep seeing him?” Trapped by Nadia's gentle hand on his jaw and the dainty brush tracing along the rim of his eye, all Julian could do was glare up at her.

“Same reason I see any other client,” Julian said, but there was a tightness to his voice that he couldn’t fully mask. “His coin is as good as anyone else’s.”

The lining brush paused in its movement so that Nadia could give him a dubious look. “So you’re shedding tears of joy after he leaves each time, is that it? Tears of ecstasy? Tears for no reason whatsoever?”

Julian sucked in a sharp breath, nostrils flaring. “I don’t shed any kind of tears, after him or any other client. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Julian, dearest, I am literally mere inches from your face, staring intently at your eyes while I do your makeup. Would you care to offer some other explanation, then, for the fact that he was your last client, but he left over an hour ago and your eyes are still red-rimmed and slightly bloodshot?” She went back to work, drawing the brush from the center of his lower lashline out to the outer corner.

He set his jaw and said nothing.

Her voice was gentle when she spoke again. “You could just have Anna send him away for you. You wouldn’t even need to come up with a reason - he’s a witcher, brute like that is probably used to being turned away.”

Not until she’d snatched her hands back and taken a step backward did Julian realize his teeth were bared and he’d hissed at her like an angry cat. With an effort, he calmed himself. Why should he be upset on Geralt’s behalf, anyway? What did it matter to Julian anymore if people saw a monster when they looked at him, rather than a man?

“All right,” Nadia said sharply. “I don’t know _what’s_ going on with you and that witcher, but you need to figure something out, because _this_ ,” said with a gesture that encompassed everything, from his tears to his anger and his refusal to discuss it, “is not an acceptable way to react to a client, no matter who it is. If seeing him does this to you, if his visits tear you up like this, then you shouldn’t be seeing him at all.”

Julian didn’t say anything. He wasn’t sure what he _could_ say to that. If it had been anyone else - anyone but Geralt - she’d have been right.

But...the thought of sending Geralt away tore at Julian’s heart. Even though that’s exactly what the witcher had done to end his other life that day on the mountain, he couldn’t bring himself to hate Geralt enough to return the favor. Not anymore. Sure, those first few times, with their petty revenge for the hurts Geralt had visited upon him over the years, had been cathartic. And he had to admit there was a dark little corner of his mind that still enjoyed the poorly-suppressed flinch his customary parting words always got from Geralt. But the idea of sending him away, dealing him the soul-deep hurt of outright rejection in turn - it was too much.

More than that, Julian didn’t want to lose him, either. What they had now, as courtesan and client, was all he had left. The thought of losing that, having Geralt completely out of his life again, made his stomach churn.

“Julian,” Nadia said, pulling him from his ruminations, “I’m serious. If you don’t sort this out, or talk to Anna about not seeing the witcher anymore, I’ll talk to her about it for you.” Her voice softened slightly. “You’re my friend, Julian, and I won’t just sit back and watch while you hurt yourself like this.”

For lack of a better response, he simply said, “Hm,” and immediately had to catch his breath and drive his nails into his palms to suppress the sob that wanted to follow it. He closed his eyes for a moment, and when he looked back at Nadia she had a pointed eyebrow raised at him.

“Fine,” he gritted out. “I’ll...I’ll think about it.”

“Good,” she said simply, and returned to doing his makeup.

* * *

He hadn't lied to Nadia. He _did_ think about it. The problem was, when he did, he couldn't come to any conclusions that didn't devolve into fantasies about Geralt leading to heartbroken tears afterward. Certainly no conclusions that involved any useful actions he could or was willing to take.

It had been fun at first. The shock when Geralt first saw him, the confusion. The fact that he hadn't been able to resist. Julian had thoroughly enjoyed that encounter, partly from the pure physical satisfaction of _finally_ getting to bed the man he'd been lusting after since he was a teenager, and partly because he knew full well the kind of guilt and shame and emotional conflict the bastard would be saddled with afterward. It was the least he deserved after how he'd acted up on that mountain. Just a bit of mild revenge in return for a shattered heart and twenty years wasted.

Only then Geralt had come back. Julian hadn't expected that. He'd had his fun, he'd had his petty revenge, and he'd assumed that would be the end of it. But Geralt did come back, and he'd been such a good lay the previous time that Julian didn't really _want_ to turn him down. And as he'd told Nadia, Geralt's coin was as good as anyone else's. So he hadn't seen a problem with doing it again.

And again. And again. And it had been fine, once he’d gotten the lingering anger out of his system and Geralt had adjusted to seeing him as Julian rather than Jaskier; he'd been over Geralt enough to be able to keep things strictly business between them. Fun, sexy business with a gorgeous man possessed of a truly epic cock. Life had been good: he enjoyed his work and the new life he'd built for himself, and he _also_ got to fuck Geralt regularly _without_ pining hopelessly after him. Win-win! He'd been happier than he could remember feeling in years.

But then that client had gotten violent with him, left him hurt and frightened. And Geralt had sweet-talked his way past Anna (and Julian’s defenses) to be able to check on Julian, paid for the evening even though he wasn't getting sex out of it, and lavished Julian with care and attention. He'd bathed him, tended to his wounds, sat vigil by his side so Julian would feel safe enough to sleep. He'd _told him stories,_ for fuck's sake, and hadn't asked a damn thing in return. Geralt had focused all his considerable attention on Julian and his well-being, asking only that Julian not send him away, with that wounded look in his eyes and the pain in his voice when he said it.

It had been like old times, only better, because Geralt wasn't holding himself back and keeping that careful, stiff distance between them the way he used to. Despite the rather traumatic events that had led up to it, it had been everything he'd always wanted, always dreamed about and never been able to have.

And for the first time, he'd regretted drawing and holding such a harsh line between the two halves of himself, his two lives. It had called up a last tiny, hidden seed of love still buried away, which Geralt's anger and Julian's grief hadn't been able to destroy, and brought it back to the surface all over again. There had been such a terrible temptation to erase that line entirely - to give in and let Geralt take care of him as Jaskier, rather than Julian. As his friend, rather than his favorite whore. He'd held out, but only barely.

After Geralt left the next morning, Julian had thought that would be the end of it and things would go back to normal the next time he visited.

It wasn't and they didn't.

That night had put a crack in the seal keeping Jaskier locked away, and ever since then the lines just kept getting blurrier and blurrier between the two.

Geralt, on the other hand, seemed to have no trouble shutting it all back away. Which made it immeasurably worse, because all of a sudden it was a near-perfect reproduction of their old dynamic in all the worst ways.

Julian yearning and suppressing it with all his might, Geralt either oblivious or ignoring it.

Julian offering himself up and giving everything he had to give, Geralt giving back only the barest minimum in return.

This time at least it was with the added bonus of getting to fuck, but in exchange he'd sacrificed all the little moments, the tender intimacies he'd once hoarded like dragon's gold. No more quiet conversations by the campfire where he could coax out that almost-smile to savor. No more baths and hair-washing after a hard fight, til Geralt was calm enough to sleep. No more of that gruff, exasperated "dammit, Jaskier" that nevertheless held an undercurrent of fondness. No more dry, sarcastic jokes in response to his incessant teasing. No more silent conversations over the heads of townsfolk, question and answer and commentary carried on an invisible line between blue eyes and gold, clear evidence of the bond they'd developed to be able to communicate that way.

And perhaps worst of all, no nights playing in a tavern, soaking in the energy of the crowd but always grounded and anchored by the palpable weight of Geralt's gaze following him from a secluded corner table. Knowing that come morning it would be just them again.

No, it was only business. Very pleasurable business, but business for all that. Geralt never lingered. When they were done, that was it. Geralt would dress and wait for Julian’s customary sharp-edged dismissal, then leave in silence.

Julian was a professional, though. He never let the tears come until after Geralt was gone. He kept his pain locked away, longing for and dreading Geralt's visits in equal measure. And when he did visit, Julian flung himself into taking all the intimacy he could have with his witcher and waited til afterward to grieve for what he couldn't.

Yet he couldn't bring himself to refuse Geralt's visits. Nadia was right, this wasn't healthy, but Julian couldn't stomach the thought of losing this last, tenuous connection to the love of his life. How could he explain that to her, though? "I already got over him once, I think it might kill me to have to do it again"? “I’d rather be his favorite whore than nothing to him at all”? That just made him sound even more pathetic than he already was.

So he was stuck, and all _thinking about it_ did was make it worse. Each time he tried to talk himself into giving Geralt up, it only shoved him further into depression. He started keeping flasks of the strongest liquor he could get his hands on stashed in his rooms to help him sleep, sometimes just to help him get through the day. When that wasn't enough, he sought and found other, stronger substances. Just to take the edge off. Just to quiet his insistent memories and his endless longing.

He was careful never to let Nadia know what he was doing. It would only worry her, and her threat to talk to Anna about the situation lurked in the back of his mind. She worried anyway, of course, because she could tell something was wrong, but as long as she had no proof she wouldn't be able to get Anna to take Geralt away from him.

So Julian drew on lessons learned in courts across the land and kept his facade well-polished, giving her nothing to work with. And when the offer from Trestka arrived, he seized on it as the perfect distraction and outlet, all in one.


	6. Discovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nadia and Geralt find out about Julian's new coping mechanism.

"Julian."

He met Nadia's eyes in the mirror. "Nadia."

She opened her mouth, then closed it again, thinking better of whatever she'd been about to say. Julian opened and sniffed at a couple of scent bottles as he waited for her to speak.

Finally she sighed, already sounding defeated. "I wish you wouldn't do this. It's a bad idea."

He shrugged. "Trestka is decent enough company, and he's willing to pay extremely well. And you know I'm not averse to rougher play, for the right client."

"I know," she agreed. "And normally I'd cheerfully see you off and wait to hear about it when you got back. But…"

"But?" Julian prompted her, selecting a cinnamon-bergamot blend and lightly dabbing a few drops on his wrists and throat.

"But this time is different. You're not well. Haven't been for months. You're not taking this assignation for coin or pleasure or even obligation. You're using it to run away from yourself and that's not healthy, Julian." Nadia's jaw was set stubbornly when he turned to face her, but there were tears in her eyes.

A pang of guilt twisted his stomach for a moment. Nadia was a good friend. She really did care about him, and it wasn't fair to her - to either of them - to keep shutting her out.

Julian rose from the vanity and crossed the room to her, pulling her into his arms. "It's all right, Nadia. I'll be all right." He felt more than heard the tiny hitched breath of a suppressed sob. "Shh, darling. It's only two nights. I can handle Trestka for two nights. It'll be fine."

"And afterward?" She drew back enough to meet his eyes, challenge written across her delicate features. "What about then? Will you just keep shutting everyone out and quietly falling apart without ever letting the people who care about you help you?" His lips tightened and she rushed on before he could argue. "Talk to me, Julian. Or if not me, Anna, or Lena or Agata or - just talk to someone. Stop hiding away and let someone help you."

"I'm fine, Nadia," Julian said curtly, stepping back. "I don't need to talk to anyone, because there's nothing to talk about."

She didn't back down. "You're not fine. You're hollow, Julian. Like something has died inside you. You hide it well, you put on the mask, but that's all it is. A calm that's surface deep and no more."

Hollow? He couldn’t decide whether he wanted to laugh or cry or both. This hollowness wasn’t new - she’d seen it before. She just didn’t know it, because he’d been much better at hiding it the first time.

Geralt’s cruelty that day had torn through him, ripped the beating heart from him and abandoned it to rot on that godsforsaken mountaintop, leaving him with only a cavernous husk where his heart had once been. It had still been fresh and raw and bleeding, metaphorically speaking, when he’d first met Nadia. But Julian, ever the consummate performer, had walled it off and covered it over and refused to let it show, refused to let anyone know just how empty his heart really was. Nadia hadn’t seen a thing, which was exactly as he’d intended.

And over time, his heart had begun to truly heal, with only a small quiet space where Geralt’s absence lived. He’d been all right, mostly. The remaining echo was a quiet one, easy enough to mask, especially in comparison to the earliest days after the mountain. He’d been fine right up until Geralt’s kindness had ripped him apart all over again, just as his anger had before.

But this time it seemed Julian wasn’t hiding it quite so well. Maybe the emptiness was bigger now, a deeper wound dealt by tenderness than by rage. Maybe it was simply the fact of it being the same pain twice over. The cavernous emptiness of before had grown to a vast chasm, and despite his best efforts he couldn’t quite smother the howling loneliness echoing through it enough to keep silent and unnoticed.

But that was nothing he intended to share with anyone, not even Nadia. So Julian rolled his eyes, trying to make light of her words. "You're being ridiculous. And here I thought _I_ was the dramatic one."

"Let me help," she said softly, undeterred by his flippancy. "Please, Julian, let me help."

"I don't need help. Not yours, nor anyone else's." Before Nadia could reply, Agata popped her head in to let him know that Trestka's carriage had arrived. "Thanks, darling," he called after her before turning back to Nadia. "I'll be back in a couple days."

"Julian…"

He dropped a quick kiss on her forehead and went to leave. At the door he paused, smiled sadly at her and added, "Besides, I don't think there _is_ any help for this."

Before she could reply, he was gone.

* * *

Nadia stood alone in Julian's room, listening to the sound of his footsteps fading as he walked out to meet Trestka's carriage and the murmur of voices as he bade Anna farewell. He hadn't closed the door behind him, assuming she would be following him out and going back to her own room.

She closed the door quietly.

It had been three months since that client who'd gotten violent with Julian, the night the witcher had come and taken care of Julian when he wouldn't let the rest of them near him. She was neither blind nor stupid; she'd known there was something between Julian and his witcher from the start, but she'd also noticed that it hadn't had the same effect on Julian in the beginning. It wasn't until after that night that things changed.

Since that night, he'd been slowly, silently coming apart. Which might be dismissed as an aftereffect of the attack itself, but there was a noticeable ebb and flow to Julian’s fragility and moodiness that directly tracked alongside the pattern of the witcher’s visits. Julian hid it well, for the most part, but she could see it - that hollowness in his eyes, the way he spoke less and less, the charming playfulness he'd been known for fading. It used to be an inextricable part of his personality, just how he was, with the girls as well as with the clients. But over the past couple of months it had become nothing more than an act he put on in the presence of a client - or, she thought bitterly, when he needed to divert attention from himself and his changed behavior. And it got exponentially worse immediately after each time he met with that witcher.

Worse, there had been a few times where he'd seemed oddly out of it, in a way that set off some kind of subconscious alarm bells for her. She couldn't pin it down, couldn't quite put her finger on what exactly was making her think there was something more than emotional turmoil at play, but the suspicion had been brewing in her for weeks.

And now Julian was gone for two days.

Firmly pushing aside her guilt at invading his privacy, reminding herself that she was doing this for his own good, Nadia began to search.

* * *

"Oh, honey, I'm sorry. You picked the wrong night, I'm afraid." Anna didn't seem tense, the way she had the last time she'd tried to put him off seeing Julian, just apologetic. "He's taken a special contract with someone and is staying at their estate for a bit. He'll be back in a few days, though. Would you like to have one of the girls instead?"

Geralt considered for a moment, then shook his head. Not that female company wasn't enticing, but this house didn't come cheap, and if Julian wasn't there he didn't want to spend that kind of money. "Thanks anyway, Anna."

Turning with a sigh, he left the brothel.

* * *

Nadia was kneeling beside Julian's bed staring at the little bottle in her hand when she heard a familiar voice from the front hall. It was a distinctive voice, deep and rough yet not forceful.

Julian's witcher.

Thoughts spun through her head almost too fast to follow.

Julian had a bottle of poppy tea. How much or how often he used it wasn't clear, but the bottle was more than half empty.

He must have started using it after that night when the witcher had come and taken care of him when he was injured.

The witcher had seemed to genuinely care for Julian - he'd paid for that night even though he'd gotten nothing from it. She'd seen the way he'd touched Julian that night carrying him to and from the bath, the gentleness in those large, calloused hands.

He would probably care that Julian was using poppy.

He'd been the only one Julian would listen to that night, when he'd rebuffed all other attempts to take care of him.

If _she_ confronted Julian about this, he'd put her off or refuse to talk to her at all. But he might listen to the witcher.

Mind made up, Nadia stood and went back to her room, taking the bottle with her. She quickly dressed, grabbed her cloak, stuffed her feet into a pair of shoes that were not at all warm enough for a fall evening but would have to do, and left. She called into Anna's office as she passed to let her know she'd be back in a few minutes, but ignored the woman's query as to why or where she was going. She'd deal with that when she got back.

She paused on the stoop to look up and down the street, praying he wouldn't have gotten too far. She wouldn't have any way to track him if -

Ah, there. Thank the gods for that white hair and the fact that he hadn't put his cloak hood up. Nadia ran after him, ducking around other people and trying to keep him in sight.

But by the time she reached the corner where she'd spotted him, he was nowhere to be seen. "Damn it!" she muttered as she turned on her heel to go back and try to think of another way to contact him before Julian got back from Trestka's.

The hand that yanked her into a narrow alleyway between two buildings was unyielding but not cruel. She started to scream anyway, out of shock more than anything else, but a leather-clad hand came down over her mouth. Silently cursing the fact that she hadn't bothered to grab her dagger for such a quick errand, Nadia squirmed against the man's grip and tried to bring her heel down on his foot, hoping to startle him into letting go.

"Why were you following me?"

Nadia stopped mid-stomp. The voice - it was him. She started to try to speak, only to remember he had her mouth covered.

"Don't scream," he warned her, but he removed his hand and gripped her shoulders, turning her to face him. "I won't hurt you, I just want to know why you were following me."

This close up his physical presence was a bit overwhelming. He towered over her, sharp features fierce as he looked down at her. Those unnatural eyes blazed even though he didn't seem particularly angry. What did Julian see in him?

Julian. The thought reminded her of why she'd come out here and sought out the witcher.

"I'm a friend of Julian's," she said, voice trembling only slightly.

His grip on her shoulders loosened further. "I recognize you. You work at the Lotus too, right?"

She nodded. "You - you care about Julian," she said, uncertain how to ask what she wanted to know. "Don't you?"

He stiffened, lips pressed into a firm line and nostrils flaring slightly. "Why do you ask?"

"Because I - Julian isn't well. He's hurting and I'm worried about him, but he won't talk to me, and then I found this in his room." Hands trembling only slightly, she held out the bottle.

The witcher took it from her, drew in a deep breath, and recoiled slightly. "Poppy?"

"Yes." Nadia watched as he shook it slightly, gauging how much was missing.

"Fuck," he growled. Oddly enough it didn't really scare her; she could tell his anger wasn't at her. "When you say he's hurting, what exactly do you mean?"

"Not physically," she explained. "He - he cries a lot, though he tries to hide it. He barely talks anymore unless it's to a client. It's like he's gone hollow inside, and he won't fucking _talk_ to anyone no matter how many times I ask." Tears of frustration welled in her eyes.

The witcher looked down at the bottle in his hand. "He hid it from me well. If I'd noticed that - or smelled that he had this - I'd have done something." There was an odd note of hurt in his tone. His cat-like eyes flicked back up to meet Nadia's. "Thank you," he said quietly. "For coming to find me, and for bringing this. When is he going to be back?"

"Two days," Nadia answered. After a moment's hesitation she pressed on. "You'll - talk to him? Help him somehow?"

"I'll do whatever I can," the witcher promised her.

Somehow, she realized as she walked back to the brothel feeling almost hopeful, she believed him.

* * *

Sitting on the edge of the narrow bed in his rented room, Geralt turned the bottle over and over in his hands. A tincture rendered from concentrated poppy resin, it was highly addictive and, if too much was taken, could easily kill a person. Taken in small doses, it gave feelings of euphoria and peace, relieved pain, and helped one sleep.

How the fuck had Julian hidden this from his senses? It had a strong scent to it. He should've been able to smell it.

But then, Julian knew his enhanced senses - and their limits - better than most people. That would've helped him figure out how to conceal a pungent-smelling drug from Geralt's notice. And besides, he'd generally been distracted when he'd been in that room, making it even easier to hide something from him.

Fuck how he'd hidden it. The bigger and far more important question was why did he have it? Why was he using it?

Geralt cast his mind back over the last couple of months. He hadn't noticed anything different about Julian. Even after the incident where Julian had been injured and allowed Geralt to tend to him afterward, nothing had changed between them.

He tried not to feel too bitter about that and failed. He'd done it with no expectation of reward. He'd just wanted to take care of Julian. But while he hadn't _expected_ anything, he had to admit there'd been a tiny part of him that had _hoped_ , just a little, that it could've served as a starting point for rebuilding a friendship outside of the bedroom.

It didn't matter what he'd hoped. It hadn't happened. Julian had continued to treat him the way he always had, so he'd shoved his hopes out of sight and pretended they didn't exist. He wasn't so foolish as to risk the only contact they had left just because he'd been stupid enough to develop feelings about it.

Dragging his mind away from those bitter ruminations, he refocused on the bottle in his hands. Why was Julian using it? How often, and how much? He'd used a good amount out of this bottle, but without knowing when he'd bought it that didn't tell him much.

With a sigh, he set the bottle on the bedside table. Julian would be back in two days, and he'd talk to him, and they'd figure this out, whatever it was. In the meantime… Geralt donned his armor and swords. There'd been a contract notice for nekkers out on some local lord's estate. He could at least keep busy and earn enough coin to cover the extra couple nights' stay, and with any luck it'd be a small nest, an easy night's work.


	7. Exhibitionism

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt finds Julian in the last place he'd expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonus points to the reader who saw where I was going with this last chapter!

Luck was with him, for once. There'd only been 3 of the little fuckers and he'd dispatched them with relative ease. Which was both good and bad: it meant he wasn't exhausted and covered in blood and sweat and gore, but it also meant it hadn't been enough exertion to quiet his mind or keep him from thinking about Julian for more than the few minutes of the fight itself.

With a sigh Geralt sheathed his sword, gathered up the heads, and headed for Lord Trestka's manor to collect the promised reward. Perhaps after he got paid he'd go find a night's company after all. Not at the Lotus, he'd be thinking - _worrying_ \- about Julian the whole time and wouldn't be able to enjoy it properly. But there were other houses, and he'd been looking forward to Julian enough that he could use a chance to burn off some of that anticipation.

Thoughts of working off some of his excess energy between a woman's thighs kept him occupied for the ride to the manor, thoroughly enough that he had to take a moment to compose himself before knocking at the front door. The haughty majordomo looked down his nose at Geralt nonetheless, as though he knew what he'd been thinking about.

Unfortunately, his luck appeared to have run out for the evening. Rather than just being allowed to collect his purse from the majordomo and going back to town, it seemed Trestka was one of those lords who insisted upon seeing the proof of completion for himself before paying the amount owed. Suppressing a sigh, Geralt followed the majordomo to the door of a small receiving-room.

"His Lordship, Baron Trestka," the majordomo announced, pushing the door open. With a curt nod to the majordomo, Geralt strode into the room - and stopped dead not two strides away from the door as it was closed behind him.

The Baron lounged at his ease in a comfortable armchair beside the hearth, a tidy fire warming him…and the man beside him.

Bright blue eyes met his, pupils blown wide with a mixture of horror and arousal. Geralt tore his gaze away, drifting down to take in the whole picture. Julian knelt on the floor beside the Baron's chair, clad in skintight suede breeches in black and a loose shirt with billowing sleeves, made of a white silk so thin and finely woven that the firelight alone was enough to render it translucent. He could see the muscles of Julian's shoulders and chest through the sheer material, hard lines softened by the delightfully thick hair he loved to scruff his fingers through. Julian’s nipples had been rouged to better stand out behind the veil of fabric, and his plush lips painted to match. Geralt swallowed hard and dragged his eyes back up to meet Julian’s, smoky kohl making the gemlike hue even brighter by contrast.

And to complete the picture of implied debauchery, a slender leather collar ringed Julian's throat, a chain leading from a ring at the front of it to the Baron's hand.

Geralt forced himself to look away, willing his body not to respond. "Lord Trestka," he managed, though his voice was even rougher than usual. "I, ah. Took care of the. The nekker problem, out in the east woods." He tossed the sack containing the nekker heads to land on the rug at the Baron's feet.

Trestka gave him a faint, smug smile. "You can look at him, you know. No need to politely pretend he's not here." He twitched his wrist to tug lightly on the leash, making Julian whimper softly. "He's here to be looked at, after all. Among other things, of course, aren't you, Julian?"

"Yes, my lord," Julian said, color rising in his cheeks. He didn't look away from Geralt's face.

"Such a pretty pet,” Trestka crooned. “But so much more than merely decorative. Perhaps a demonstration of your...other uses...is in order, what do you think, pet?”

Julian was all but panting, sucking in air between parted lips. He still hadn’t looked away from Geralt. “As my lord wishes,” he whispered, voice shaking. Geralt could hear Jullian’s heart racing, rabbit-quick. His scent was hopelessly tangled, notes of humiliation, lust, self-loathing, and pleasure all mingled into an overwhelming wave.

Geralt tried to make himself take a step back but couldn’t move. His eyes flicked to Julian again and immediately away, unable to bear the intensity of that burning blue gaze. “That’s, um.” He clears his throat roughly. “That’s not necessary, Baron.” He felt like his skin was burning, caught between wanting it and hating himself for it. He couldn’t help but glance at Julian again, his reddened mouth so inviting that Geralt couldn’t stop his body from responding to it. Julian’s eyes left Geralt’s face for the first time since he’d walked in, drawn instead to the growing bulge at the front of his trousers. Desire was written clearly across his features as he licked his lips.

“Necessary? Perhaps not,” Trestka said. “But the whore seems quite taken with you, and it seems a shame not to get the full fee’s worth of usage from him while I have him. He's quite expensive, after all.” With a faint smile, he said, “Consider it a gratuity, witcher. For the prompt resolution of my little problem. I've missed the riding trail through the east woods.” He made a vague gesture at the bag on the floor, then twitched at Julian’s leash again. “Go on, pet,” he said, nodding toward where Geralt stood, still helplessly rooted to the ground.

In some distant part of his mind, Geralt knew this was a terrible idea. Even worse than bedding Julian that first time had been. But just as he had been then, so he still was now: possessed by the unquenchable craving to take, to have as much of the man as he could get. As much as he was _allowed_ to have.

So instead of saying something, putting a stop to this, even just turning around and leaving without a word, he waited and watched Julian crawl to him. Watched his hips sway and the muscles of his back ripple behind the sheer veil of fabric. Watched Julian’s nimble fingers come up and start undoing buttons, grazing the sensitive flesh beneath. Looked down into those beautiful eyes darkened with lust, watched Julian lick his lips.

Geralt had lived a long time, and done a lot of things in his long life. But nothing had ever felt as _filthy_ , as _shamefully_ good as Julian, kneeling collared and leashed with the other end of the leash in someone else’s hands, sliding his lips down Geralt’s cock. He could feel Trestka watching, which only stoked the twin fires of shame and pleasure in his belly to new heights.

“Fuck,” he growled. Distantly he heard Trestka chuckle. Didn’t matter. Nothing mattered, just then, but the liquid heat of Julian’s mouth and his skilled throat clenching around Geralt’s prick as Julian swallowed him down.

Carefully he let one gloved hand come to rest on the back of Julian's head, not pushing, simply holding. The man shuddered even at that gentle touch, the scent of his arousal spiking as he moaned in a way that had Geralt’s hips jerking forward involuntarily. It didn’t faze Julian in the slightest - it never did - and he took it so well, looking up from beneath fluttering eyelashes to meet his eyes, that Geralt did it again with a bitten-off curse.

Julian let out a reedy whine at that and Geralt lost his mind, a little bit. His other hand came up to grip Julian's hair, fingers tangling in the silky strands, and he fucked into that sweet mouth faster and harder than he'd ever allowed himself to before. Julian’s fingers dug into Geralt’s thighs but he offered no resistance, simply taking everything Geralt chose to give.

It was almost eerily quiet in the room, the only sounds the crackling of the fire in the hearth and his own harsh breathing mingled with Julian's helpless whimpers. His focus had narrowed until all he could see, all he could hear, all he could feel was Julian. He breached that tight throat with each thrust and Julian yielded, again and again, pliant and perfect under Geralt's hands even as involuntary tears welled in his eyes and streaks of kohl stained his cheeks. A brief flash of shame burned in Geralt’s chest at defiling such ethereal beauty, and all the worse for taking such pleasure in it, but he couldn’t _fucking_ stop himself.

He tried to at least slow down, but Julian made a choked sound of protest. And as always Geralt was weak, so damnably weak to anything Julian might want from him that he couldn’t help but give him everything he asked for. He let Julian’s eager noises and the rising scent of lust on his skin drive the pounding of his hips, gritting his teeth to hold back as long as he could. And then Julian, likely feeling how close he was, blinked up at him from beneath tear-spiked lashes ringed by smudged kohl and on the next thrust moaned around his cock, deep and filthy.

It _shoved_ him over the edge, unstoppable. Irresistible. He gasped, hips stuttering out of his control, and poured his release down Julian's welcoming throat as it squeezed tight around him with each rhythmic swallow.

Struck by a sudden greedy, possessive urge, Geralt pulled Julian back by his hair and snarled as he painted Julian's beautiful face with the last of his spend. _Mine_. He didn't have to say it, knew Julian could read it in his eyes. Without breaking eye contact, Geralt tucked himself away and buttoned his trousers again, then cupped Julian’s chin, letting his thumb sweep through the mess of spit and come and smeared rouge on his lips. Julian’s tongue flicked out to meet his touch, lapping delicately at the fluids collected on his fingertip.

“Good,” Geralt murmured, keeping the pleased smile off his face in Trestka’s presence, though he knew Julian would be able to see it in his eyes. “So good for me, Julian.”

Julian shivered at that, eyelids flickering, and sucked in a breath as though to answer.

A sharp jerk on the leash shattered the moment between them before Julian could speak. Letting his hand fall back to his side, Geralt looked past Julian and met Trestka’s eyes. “Your fee,” the nobleman drawled, taking a small velvet pouch from the table beside him and tossing it over.

Geralt plucked it neatly from the air and nodded, keeping his face expressionless. “Baron,” he said simply in acknowledgment.

Letting his glance fall across Julian’s face one last time, he turned and left.

Thankfully the hall was devoid of servants, allowing him to take a moment to collect himself. Geralt leaned against the wall and closed his eyes, fighting a surge of disgust and shame, pushing away the lingering pleasure as well. This wasn’t the time for any of it. He’d get himself under control, go back to the inn, and deal with his treacherous emotions there. And when Julian was done here, in two days, he’d go talk to him about everything, make sure Julian got whatever help he needed, however he needed it.

With a last slow, deep breath to smooth the veneer of calm a little more fully across his mind, Geralt pushed off the wall and started to walk away.

He hadn’t gotten more than two steps, however, when voices from the room he’d just left filtered through his consciousness.

“Look at you.” Trestka’s sneering tones and noble accent were unmistakable. “Covered in that mutant’s spend and your cock still hard from letting him use you. Disgusting, even for a whore like you.”

Geralt stopped. Trestka could say what he liked about him, but using that kind of demeaning tone on Julian -

“As well take you out to the kennels and let the dogs have at you,” Trestka continued, “since you seem to like being used by beasts.”

His hands slowly closed into fists, and Geralt realized he was growling quietly. Beast and mutant were fairly standard insults leveled at himself, and he’d long since grown inured to them, but to use them against _Julian_ that way? Oh, no. Trestka was going to regret this.

“He’s not a _beast._ ”

 _Ah, fuck._ Geralt sighed, his own anger taking a backseat to a mixture of worry and resignation more familiar to him than he wanted to admit. It had been a long time since he’d heard that tone, but he knew it well as the precursor to more tavern fights and roadside altercations than he cared to count. No matter how many times he’d told Jaskier to let it go, the bard had never been willing to let insults to his witcher pass unchallenged.

Geralt forced himself to ignore the warm glow of happiness that sparked in his gut to hear Julian come to his defense even now, focusing instead on the fact that the righteous anger ringing through Julian's voice wouldn’t play well with someone like Trestka.

“In fact, he’s a better man than any on this estate.” Geralt could picture the proud lift to Julian’s chin, the challenge gleaming in his eyes, undimmed even though he knelt at the end of a leash like an animal. He grimaced. Whether as Jaskier or Julian, the idiot had never developed a sense of when to back down on this particular issue.

The next sound was the crack of a hand striking a face, followed by a muffled sound of shock and pain. “You forget your place, whore.” He could hear rustling, as of clothing being removed. The slap of leather on flesh came a few seconds later, accompanied by a sharp cry. “How dare you speak so boldly to me?" Another slap, another cry of pain. "You are here to serve my pleasure, not to question your betters, you insolent little plaything." Slap, slap, slap in quick succession. Julian's voice rising wordlessly over it in an anguish that sounded like more than mere physical hurt.

Geralt whirled and set his hand on the door handle, ready to storm back in and _explain_ Trestka’s error to him, just as the majordomo appeared at the end of the corridor.

"I'm sorry, my lord!" Trestka didn't even slow the delivery of blows at that.

"Not yet, you're not," he replied, then laughed nastily as Julian wailed at a blow that sounded far harder than the ones before it. "But you will be. I'll make sure of it."

The majordomo closed the distance between them, approaching with surprising confidence despite the fury Geralt knew was written plainly across his features. "I'll show you out, witcher," the man said, a hint of venom leaking out beneath the cultured tones of an upper servant. "This way, please."

For a long moment Geralt hesitated. He could go back in there and get Julian away from Trestka. _Without_ killing Trestka, even, if he wanted to avoid unnecessary death, although… Well, ever since Blaviken Geralt had grown even more wary of killing humans unless it was absolutely unavoidable, but he was tempted to make an exception for Trestka after hearing his treatment of Julian. He doubted this estate had the kind of guards that could slow down a furious witcher or stop him from leaving with Julian afterward, either way.

But the cost…Geralt would definitely have to skip town before Trestka brought the place down on him. If the Baron took it particularly personally, and he seemed the type to, he might take it out on Julian, too. Julian could wind up forced out as well. And whatever stress was pushing Julian to use poppy, Geralt doubted being forced out of his home and life would do anything to improve the situation. The Baron might even take his anger out on the Lotus entirely, ruining Anna's livelihood and that of the girls working there, none of whom deserved to suffer that.

No, he reluctantly conceded. No matter how badly he wanted to, charging in and rescuing Julian now would make things worse, not better. The thought sat sour on Geralt's tongue, but Julian was strong enough to handle it a little longer. So Geralt would be smart about this, bide his time, and find a way to help Julian without accidentally harming him further.

Flinching as he heard Julian let out a harsh sob, carefully tuning out the sound of him breaking and pleading with Trestka for mercy as the punishment continued, Geralt nodded and followed the majordomo out.

_I'll come back for you, Julian. Just endure it a little longer._


	8. Parting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt goes back to Trestka's to rescue Julian. It does not go as expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are we ready for some more Angst and terrible life choices? Because we are There.
> 
> CW for reckless self-endangerment - not exactly a suicide attempt, but deliberately putting oneself in dangerous situations and letting the dice fall where they may.

_Sloppy_ , Geralt thought contemptuously as he slipped past the drowsing gate guards of Trestka’s estate like a shadow, sometime after midnight that night. It was no challenge at all to reach the manor, pad silently through the kitchen door, and trace the scent of Julian through the halls to, predictably, the Baron's own rooms.

His stomach clenched unpleasantly at the sight that greeted him when he entered. Trestka slumbered peacefully in his ostentatiously large bed, alone, while Julian lay curled on his side atop a small pallet of furs, on the floor at the end of Trestka's bed. He was naked save for the collar and leash from earlier, the end of the chain looped around one of the foot-posts of the bed. Even in the dim light of the banked hearth the marks and bruises marring Julian's pale skin were clearly visible to Geralt's sight.

Breathing slowly to control his anger and push down the urge to slit Trestka's fucking throat while he slept, Geralt crossed the room and knelt beside Julian. He'd intended to shake Julian's shoulder to wake him, but his traitorous fingers went to Julian's face instead, gently brushing wayward sable strands from his brow.

"Jas-" He stopped himself. Where the fuck had _that_ come from? It had been months since he'd last slipped up like that. "Julian," he whispered instead.

Julian stirred reluctantly, never quick to wake. "Mmm? 's dark. Wha?" He pushed himself up on an elbow, then finally looked around and seemed to be aware of his surroundings. "Geralt?" He blinked. "What the fuck are you doing here?"

Geralt frowned at him. "What do you mean, what am I doing here? I… I came for you."

The inscrutable look Julian leveled at him was enough to send anxious uncertainty spiking through him. He'd thought this was pretty straightforward, but maybe he'd read it all wrong. It wouldn't be the first time.

"Why?" Julian asked flatly.

"Earlier, when I left," Geralt said awkwardly. "I. I heard Trestka, what he said to you. Heard him hurting you." Stretching out a hand, his fingers hovered over but didn't quite touch the marks Trestka had left on Julian.

"Geralt," Julian said, sounding simultaneously irritated and patient, "what, precisely, did you think I was here for?" When Geralt simply stared at him wordlessly, he sighed and continued. "I mean, I thought the leash and him ordering me to suck you off was fairly self-explanatory, but…"

"Yeah, I got that, thanks," Geralt broke in. "But what I heard - he took it too far. I heard you crying and begging him for mercy, and these -" He indicated the bruises again.

"For fuck's sake, Geralt," Julian snapped, not bothering to keep his voice down. "When will you stop trying to _save_ me?"

Geralt reeled back, sitting on his heels, and stared in bewilderment. "What?"

As Julian drew breath to reply, Trestka sat up in bed. He didn't even have time to get a single sound out before Geralt wrapped axii around his mind and ordered him to go back to sleep.

Julian continued as though he hadn't even noticed. "I said, stop trying to fucking save me, Geralt! This is my life now, and if I want to take an assignation that includes being hurt as well as fucked, that's my choice. I don't need you to ride in and rescue me. I don't need you to play the gallant knight to my swooning maiden." His full lips thinned to a harsh line. "I don't need you anymore, Geralt."

"Don't you?" Geralt demanded, ignoring the sick twist of hurt those words produced. "You might not need _me_ specifically, but you sure as fuck need _someone_ to step in and save you from yourself."

"I don't -"

"Not from this, not from your work, that’s not what I mean. Nadia found the bottle of poppy tea you’ve been hiding in your room." Geralt pinned Julian with an unforgiving gaze. He knew his eyes would catch the dim light with that animalistic flash that most humans found so unnerving. He couldn't decide whether he hoped Julian would find it frightening for once, to give his stare maximum effect, or if it would only hurt all the more to lose Julian's easy acceptance of his less-human traits. "She brought it to me because she knew you wouldn't listen to her if she tried to talk to you about it."

Julian's breath caught sharply. "How dare you?" he hissed. "That is none of your business!"

"Like hell it's not -"

"It's not! We're not _friends_ , Geralt." Julian bared his teeth in a snarl. "You made _very_ sure of that."

Geralt’s strained self-control snapped as the shock of that reply went through him like an arrow. He couldn't think, could only respond.

"And I've regretted it every single _fucking_ day since then!" Geralt shouted. "If I could, I'd have you back at my side in a heartbeat, but you've made it clear you're not interested in that, haven't you, _Julian?"_ His voice quieted, grew thick with hurt and self-loathing. "Even now, like this," he said, "you'd rather stay here than come with me. Do you really hate me that much?"

To his own horror, Julian felt tears welling in his eyes. "I don't hate you, Geralt -"

Geralt snorted in disbelief. "But you'd still rather this," gesturing again at the marks and bruises, the collar and leash, "rather be beaten and sleep chained like a fucking dog than come back out on the Path with me?"

"Yes!" Julian's voice cracked. "Because at least Trestka only leaves marks on my body! I’ll take a few bruises any day over the bleeding wounds _you_ leave on my very _soul_."

A terrible, humming silence fell on them.

Geralt took one long, slow breath. Then another, still staring at Julian, unblinking.

Without a sound, he slowly rose to his feet. With measured steps he backed away, never taking his eyes off Julian’s, until his hand reached behind him and found the door handle.

Tears spilled over and streaked down Julian's face, catching the meagre firelight and glistening gold.

The soft click of the door latch closing was the loudest sound Julian had ever heard in his life.

* * *

"I know he's not here," Geralt cut Anna off before she could say anything. "I just have something to leave for him, in his room if I may. Please."

She eyed him for a moment, then shrugged and handed him a key. "Bring that back to me before you go."

* * *

"Julian!" Nadia's voice rang out like a discordant note, untuned by shock.

He dredged up a pale echo of his usual playful grin. "That bad, huh?" But he knew it was. Over the rest of his time at the Baron's home he'd pushed Trestka unrelentingly and caused the bastard to heap punishment after punishment on him, seeking that edge where the pain would be enough to quiet his mind and numb his heart.

He hadn't found it. He'd just found bruises and tears and flesh rubbed raw in _addition_ to the howling grief inside. And now just walking down the hall to his room was turning out to be quite the challenge as a result.

"Yes, and you damn well know it," she snapped.

Julian flinched away from the anger in her tone, unable to bear it at the moment. "Yeah," he said, letting himself sound tired so she'd focus on that and hopefully not pry further. "It was a long couple of days. I'm going to lay down for a little bit and then go take a hot bath, that should set me right in no time."

"You'll need help tending to whatever marks he left."

"Who says he left…" Julian glanced sidelong at her and gave up the pretense. "After my bath, all right?"

Nadia gave him a sharp nod, but the way she hovered in the hallway until he closed his door behind him belied her apparent ire.

Freed from her scrutiny, Julian let himself slump back against the door for a long moment before forcing himself upright. He dropped his clothes on the floor as he removed them, abandoning his usual fastidious care for his clothing in favor of simply making it to the bed and collapsing.

But when he reached the bed, he didn't collapse. The sight of a small ceramic bottle on his bedside table commanded his attention. Julian sank slowly to sit on the edge of the bed, wincing at the pressure on his bruises. His hand shook as he reached out and picked it up, automatically hefting it to test the weight of the liquid within. It was unchanged from when he'd last taken some. There was a note underneath. He took it and held it in trembling fingers as he read.

> _J -_   
>  _I hope you find the peace you're seeking. I’m sorry I couldn’t be the one to give it to you._   
>  _\- G_

Clutching the bottle to his chest, Julian stared at the note. He recognized it for the goodbye it was. If Geralt had intended to continue concerning himself with Julian's welfare, he wouldn't have given the poppy tea back.

Without taking his eyes off that fucking note, he popped the cork from the bottle with his thumb and brought it to his lips. He swallowed once, then again, again, and kept going until the bottle was empty before setting it back down on the table.

Perhaps, with enough poison, he could kill the blooming flower of his love all over again.

Curling up on his lonely bed, crumpling the note in one clenched fist, Julian buried his face in the pillows and sobbed until blackness took him.

* * *

"Julian?"

"'s fiiine."

"Julian, look at me."

He pried his eyelids open. They were so heavy. Why were they so heavy? Holding them up was exhausting.

"Julian…"

"'m tired," he complained. "Wan' sleep."

Nadia's face appeared above him, fear in her eyes. "Julian, how much did you drink?"

"Ezzac’ly the right 'mount," he insisted. "I know my. My. M' limits."

"How did you get this back, Julian?" Nadia demanded. "I gave it to your witcher -"

"No!" Julian forced his eyes open enough to glare at her. "No."

"No?" She sounded baffled. "No, what?"

"Not _mine_. Wolf. Not mine, never - never _mine_ …" Julian felt tears welling in his eyes again even as he cursed his own weakness.

"Oh," Nadia said softly. "Oh, Julian." The look of understanding and sorrow in Nadia's face was too much to bear, so Julian let his eyes fall shut. Hot tears burned trails down his temples into his hair.

The feeling of Nadia's cool hands smoothing over his face followed him back down into darkness.

* * *

"Whatever it is, it’s vicious. Three men have died in those woods, woodcutters all, armed with axes. Men who should have been able to protect themselves against most things found in the forest. Another has gone missing," the tavern owner explained. "One man survived an attack - Jan, over there." He pointed to a burly man with black hair drinking alone at a table across the room.

"All right," Geralt said with a brusque nod. "I'll take care of it." Without another word, he stood, turned, and headed for the door.

"But, but - Witcher!" the man called after him. "We don't even know what it was that did it. Don't you want to talk to Jan, see if he can tell you more?"

Geralt didn't pause. "No."

* * *

It turned out to be a leshen. A challenging contract even when going in fully prepared; damned dangerous to go stumbling into. One of the wolves it summoned to fight beside it got fangs deep into Geralt's wrist, in the sliver of a gap between vambrace and glove. And while it had him off-balance, the leshen managed to swipe its claws into the vulnerable spot along his side where the breastplate and back of his armor met, leaving a nasty gouge over his ribs. There was blood pooling in his left boot by the time he wrenched his arm free and managed to kill the leshen and its allies.

He knocked back just enough Kiss to slow the bleeding, only as much as needed to keep him from passing out in the saddle before returning to the village. With his coin in hand, he mounted back up and rode out immediately, ignoring the whispers that rose in his wake.

* * *

His damaged wrist was still weak when he set out after some drowners two days later. He fought left-handed instead, slow and clumsy compared to his usual speed and grace. Didn't matter. They died eventually. He didn't, though he did take more slashes and grazes and bruises than a fight with a handful of drowners should've left him with.

That didn't matter either.


	9. Loneliness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt continues his downward spiral. Nadia lets Julian borrow the brain cell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for my long absence, loves! I've had some Life Shit going on this past couple months - house nearly got foreclosed on, a head-on collision totaled my beloved car, and I just started a new job a couple weeks ago - so I haven't had the spoons for writing or editing. But I'm getting back in the groove again, so to speak, and will hopefully be getting these last few chapters out to you all over the next week or two. 
> 
> Thanks for your patience and for sticking with me despite my radio silence!

"Next time he comes here, you should -"

"He's not coming back, Nadia." The words should've hurt, Julian knew, but it felt distant, the way everything did these days.

"You don't know that."

"Yes, I do." He met her eyes without wavering. "Geralt of Rivia is nothing if not certain of his ability to know what's good for someone better than they do. He'd never have given the poppy back if he was still concerned for my well-being."

"Julian -"

"It's for the best," he said with a shrug. "I know I won't be seeing him again, so I can actually move on for good this time."

"But you're not happy, Julian."

He gave her a gentle smile. "What does that have to do with anything?"

* * *

When the snows came, Geralt used the contract money he hadn't bothered to spend on food or shelter for himself to pay for stabling for Roach through the winter at the best place he could afford. She deserved to rest in comfort for a while.

He, on the other hand… With her care seen to for the season, he set back out on foot alone, with only his torn and battered armor and his swords.

* * *

Julian was kind, and quiet, and gentle, and Nadia hated it.

All the fire, all the joy and laughter and humor and sass had gone out of him. He spoke when needed, mostly to clients, but never more than that. He’d even given her the last of the poppy tea to dispose of so she could be reassured that he wasn’t using it anymore, but he still wasn’t himself. He reminded her of an effigy on a shrine: a lovely shell, serene and benevolent, but lifeless now that grief had killed the core of his spirit.

Nadia missed her friend terribly, even when he was sitting right beside her.

* * *

It hardly seemed fair to kill the wyvern, Geralt thought, dodging a swipe of its tail on pure reflex. It was only hunting for food, same as any other creature. Wasn’t its fault that people had begun encroaching on its usual hunting grounds and then took exception to it taking its meals from their flocks and herds.

The thought of food tugged at something in the back of his mind. He’d grown adept at ignoring the stabbing pains of hunger his body still occasionally punished him with, but it made it hard to remember when he’d last eaten. Had it already been ten days?

Ten days, he’d learned, was about his limit. That was the point at which his body would begin to give out, and he’d be forced to find and eat something, just enough to keep going until the next time. Some tiny remnant of self-preservation tucked away in the darkest corner of his thoughts usually tried to keep him from going into a hunt during the last couple days of that cycle, so he’d assumed he couldn’t be at that point yet.

But if the hunger was enough to distract him from a fight…

When he was next able to focus enough to think, the wyvern was dead on the ground nearby, charred. He didn’t remember using igni on it, but he must have. The spike from its tail was embedded in Geralt’s thigh, broken off from the tail itself. He stared at it. Venom, he thought vaguely. There were things he should do for that. What those things were he wasn’t sure, but there were definitely things he should do.

The next time he came back to conscious awareness, the tail-spike was laying on the ground beside him. His last vial of Golden Oriole was next to it, uncorked and mostly empty, the ground beneath it wet where it had fallen over and spilled. Geralt looked at the vial, then at his leg, which had lost the ugly darkened cast of tainted blood and was simply red with ordinary blood. Clearly he’d used some of the potion before he dropped it. Good enough. With a shrug, he left the near-empty bottle lying and limped away.

Back in the village, the alderman looked askance at his wounded leg as he handed over the contract fee. “You ought to have that looked at,” he said. “Our healer, she could -”

The door was closed behind him and Geralt was halfway down the block before the alderman could finish his sentence.

* * *

“I know -” Julian said between kisses, “- what you’re - doing.”

“That’s fine,” Nadia murmured, sliding practiced hands down his chest to untie the sash of his robe. “As long as it works.”

Julian nipped just below her ear, making her gasp. “Who said it was working?” he asked.

“Well,” she said, curling her hand around his rapidly-stiffening cock, “you’re still here.”

He let out a strangled sound as she squeezed lightly. “That’s fair, I suppose.” Shrugging his robe off, he got his hands beneath Nadia’s thighs and lifted her up, depositing her on her bed.

When she gave him a wicked smile and reached out a hand, beckoning, he followed her down.

After, she lay curled against him and stroked one hand through his chest hair. “I’m not asking you to, you know, _talk_ -talk about it,” she said softly. “Just explain it to me, help me understand, and I won’t bring it up again.”

Julian stretched slightly, feeling just indolent enough to actually allow her the question. She’d known what she was about, that girl, he thought with a faint smile. He felt more sated after one round with her than he usually did after a whole evening’s worth of clients. His mind was almost silent, for once; he felt like he might actually be able to face the subject without falling apart. “Your word on that?”

She nodded against his shoulder. “I just need to _know_ , Julian. I’ll let it lie after that. I promise.”

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “I was eighteen years old, just out of Oxenfurt and trying to start making a living as a bard. I was performing at a shitty little tavern in Posada when I saw the most gorgeous man sitting alone in a corner, brooding…”

For the first time in his life, Julian told the story without minimizing or deflecting or evading the topic of his feelings for the witcher he’d met that day. Nadia was a warm, comforting weight against his side, staying silent and letting him speak without interruption.

“And he said, ‘If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands,’ and turned away.” Julian swallowed hard. “I didn’t see him again until the first time he came here.”

Despite her intent to stay quiet and just let him talk, Nadia sat up and gave Julian a scandalized look. “What an absolute fucking prick!”

Julian laughed. It was oddly freeing, feeling validated in that reaction at last. “I thought so, yes.” He raised an eyebrow at Nadia. “Did you want to hear the rest or not?”

“Hmmph.” But she settled back down beside him again. “Sorry. Go on.”

His voice stayed steady as he explained his rationale for agreeing to see Geralt the first time he came to the Lotus, and then subsequent times, but grew thick with tears when he reached what he’d privately labeled as ‘the turning point’.

“That night, with the bastard who got rough with me…” he sighed. “I should’ve sent Geralt away. But I was weak, and my emotions were all churned up anyway, and I thought I was over it enough that it wouldn’t be an issue. I thought there was enough separation between what we used to be and what we’d become that it could work. Only...I guess that wasn’t true. I got stupid. I wanted more than I could have. And when it was over and he went back to normal, it...hurt.”

Nadia shifted beside him, and he heard her take a breath as if she were about to speak, but she didn’t. He waited another moment, then mentally shrugged and continued the tale, culminating in their confrontation that night at Trestka's estate.

“He didn’t say a word,” Julian finished quietly, after relating their last conversation in Trestka’s bedroom. “Just...stood up and left. Left the bottle of poppy tea and the note with it in my room here, and that’s...that’s it. He’s gone, and I need to learn how to move on again - for real, this time.” He roughly swiped away an errant tear with the back of his free hand.

Nadia thought for a moment. She sighed. She sat up and leaned over, drawing Julian into a slow, deep kiss.

And then she drew back a tiny bit and murmured against his lips, tenderly.

“Julian, you are a fucking idiot.”

He jerked his head back, pressing into the pillow to get enough distance that he could give her a shocked and affronted stare. She sat up and crossed her arms over her chest, giving him an extremely unimpressed look.

“What the _fuck_ , Nadia?” She had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling, as he suddenly had more fire and personality in him than he’d had in weeks. “I...I bare my very soul to you, you temptress, and you just, you turn around and _insult_ me?”

She couldn’t help it - she laughed at that.

“And now, you laugh! You laugh at my suffering! Cruel, cruel mistress of the night you are.” But there was a tiny spark of humor in his eyes when he glared up at her.

“Julian, I say it with all the love in the world, but yes. You’re a fucking idiot.” She shook her head fondly.

He sat up, pushing himself up to lean against the headboard. “That’s not news,” he pointed out. “But do enlighten me on the specifics of how I’ve been an idiot this particular time.”

“You’re too close to it, too tangled up in your history with him to see it, but Julian, he does care for you. Deeply. Loves you, even. Since that night -”

Julian waved a hand dismissively. “Yeah, that night, but after that he acted like nothing had ever happened.”

She grabbed his waving hand and held it still. “And that’s why I’m calling you an idiot, because he’s been different since that night. You didn’t see it, maybe because you were too afraid to look, but I’ve seen the way he looked at you, when you met him out front instead of waiting in your room. I’ve seen the way he lingered outside your door each time when he left. If I had to guess, I'd say he was pretending to act like that night never happened because he thought that was what you wanted, but I’m pretty sure he’s been pining after you just as hard as you’ve been pining after him.”

“You don’t know him like I know him, Nadia. He’s not the pining type, at least not if you’re not a terrifying violet-eyed sorceress.”

“And _you_ didn’t see the look on his face when he found out you were using poppy,” Nadia shot back. “I did. He was hurt, Julian. Hurt that you hadn’t trusted him enough to ask for his help. He was worried about you, and he promised to do whatever he could to help you when I asked.”

Julian bit his lip, uncertainty creeping into his eyes.

“And I might not know _him_ , darling, but I know clients in general far better than you do. You’ve been doing this for what, two years? I’ve been doing it a lot longer. I’ve seen clients catch feelings before, and he’s had it bad for you for a while now. Even before that night, though he hid it better at first.”

“Having _feelings_ ,” Julian all but spat the word as though it disgusted him, “for his favorite whore is a far cry from having feelings for his...whatever it was I used to be, to him.” He laughed bitterly. “Not his friend, he was clear about that.”

But Nadia was already shaking her head. “He wasn’t a man trying to ignore it as he fell in love. He was a man trying to suppress something already deep-rooted in his heart. What he felt for you predated your liaison here.”

Julian ignored that. “If it was really that ‘deep-rooted’, don’t you think he’d have said something at some point during the past two decades?”

“ _You_ didn’t.” She gave him a pointed look.

“Well, all right, no,” he admitted. “But I was always quite vocal about caring for him. I was his friend. He wouldn’t even allow that much in turn.”

“Julian,” Nadia said patiently, “did you or did you not just five minutes ago describe him as ‘the most taciturn, emotionally constipated bastard you ever met’?”

His mouth opened and closed, but no sound came out. Nadia took that for the answer it was.

“So why would you expect otherwise? I know the type, and that sort of man would push you away all the _more_ , not because he didn't want you but because he was terrified of how much he wanted to keep you.”

A muted sense of panic clawed at the back of Julian’s throat. He felt a sudden burning urge to shove her words back, throw them away from his mind before they could feed the tiny, withered seedling of love and hope still hiding in him and coax it back to full bloom.

“You love him, Julian -”

“I love lots of people,” he interrupted. “He’s not special.”

The silence lasted all of five seconds before he capitulated. “All right, fine. What of it?”

"And I would bet every mark I've ever earned that he loves you, too."

"Even if you're right," he said, "love alone isn't enough. He was an absolute bastard to me."

"And you said he tried to apologize, the first time you met again after the dragon hunt. You refused his apology. Plus, I’m pretty sure you got your own back with the way your argument at Trestka's ended. I can't imagine that was pleasant for him to hear. I think you've probably added enough of a counterweight to center the scales of bastardy between you."

Julian stared at her with an unreadable look, long enough that she began to wonder if she'd gone too far with that last one.

At last he slumped and cast his gaze down, fiddling with the sheet. "It doesn't feel as satisfying as I had thought it would," he admitted softly, sounding pained. "In the moment when I said it, I thought I wanted him to hurt like I hurt, to know the pain he'd inflicted on me. But it turns out I don't like knowing I hurt him like that."

"Because you love him."

"Because I love him," Julian agreed, meeting her eyes with a wry twist to his lips.

Nadia laid her hand against his cheek. “Go find him, Julian. You deserve better than this sort of...slow heart-death. And since he’s not coming back, you’ve got to go to him.”

He was silent for a long moment before replying, so quiet she could barely hear him. “But what if you’re wrong, Nadia? About what he...feels for me? If anything.” That last was tacked on hastily, like a man trying to appease a capricious god who might snatch away any happiness that seemed to be taken for granted.

“I’m not,” she said simply. “But if I am, then at least you’ll know for sure. Come back here, and I’ll help you drown your sorrows til you’re properly over him.”

“I feel like I should have more...more pride, than to go chasing after him yet again. Shouldn’t I?” Julian sounded terribly uncertain.

“Which is more important,” Nadia countered, “your pride or your happiness?”

He found he didn’t have an answer to that.


	10. Finally

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Julian goes in search of his idiot and finds unexpected help from the only character other than Nadia to have any brain cells. Geralt hits rock bottom, literally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the concern and well-wishes! My situation is much better now, we stopped the foreclosure and kept the house, I haven't bought a new car yet but I've got money set aside and bc of covid I can take my time and be picky since I'm WFH anyway, and the new job is going really well!
> 
> Also, just to reiterate: I promise everyone lives.

It felt odd, Julian thought, being out on the road on horseback instead of on foot. But he’d been two years at the Lotus since he’d last traveled, and while it had been an active life in one sense, it wasn’t the kind of active that would keep up the leg muscles and long-term endurance necessary to walk between towns the way he used to. And he wasn’t fool enough to fling himself out into the world in the depths of winter unprepared. Thus, a horse.

Unfortunately, while he’d had enough coin set aside that he was able to buy a horse, it hadn’t been enough to buy a _good_ horse. The grey gelding, inexplicably named Pegasus, had a top speed of “meandering”, but preferred to stick to “plodding” most of the time.

Though that might have been Julian’s own impatience more than anything else. But he could’ve sworn Roach had always gone faster than this.

He set out heading northeast to begin with. Most years, Geralt would winter in the mountains at Kaer Morhen, but sometimes he chose not to. Julian figured that if Geralt had gone home that winter, he’d pick up the trail quickly enough and could spend the winter in Ard Carraigh, until Geralt came down from the mountains in spring. And if he couldn’t find any whisper of his witcher in the north, he’d turn around and head south, see if he could find him that way. Decades of practice at following rumors and sightings to find the itinerant bastard had left Julian confident of his ability to find Geralt eventually.

As he rode, one hand came up to touch the strap running diagonally across his chest. The weight of his lute riding against his back was at once strange and painfully familiar, but when he’d been packing to leave, he’d found he couldn’t bear the thought of leaving it behind or selling it. He still wasn’t inclined to play at all, much less try to perform - and he rather thought he’d sound like a dying duck if he tried to sing for a crowd after two years with his voice locked away by sorrow - but carrying the lute felt almost like a talisman of hope. If he could find Geralt, if Nadia was right, if they could work things out between them…

Julian shook the thought away, firmly keeping the hope at arm’s length. Straightening his back, his hand dropped back to the reins and he and Pegasus walked on.

* * *

Julian sighed as he led Pegasus into the stables of one of the better inns in Hagge. There was some kind of commotion down at the far end, which didn’t bode well for his ability to get someone’s attention and get Pegasus sorted out for the night anytime soon.

Thankfully, one of the men dealing with the commotion saw him and said a word or two to the youngest of the stableboys trying to help with whatever was happening. The lad, looking grateful to be released from the situation, hurried over to Julian and reached for Pegasus’ reins. “Stabling for the night, sir?”

“Yes, thank you,” Julian said. He’d already pulled the only bag he generally bothered to take into inns off the back of Pegasus’ saddle. The rest of the baggage - mostly kit for camping out, which he didn’t plan on doing anytime soon but wanted to be prepared for anyway since he couldn’t just rely on Geralt having everything he’d need - he would leave with Pegasus’ gear down in the stables for the night. He handed the stableboy a couple of coins.

The lad cast a nervous glance back at the continuing fuss at the far end of the stable row as he took them and pocketed them. Without thinking, Julian followed his glance -

\- and was confronted with a particularly familiar equine face. Although perhaps it was more the expression that was familiar: the pinned-back ears and the devilish glint in the eyes as she made to bite the man holding her lead rope, then tossed up her head with a jerk in an attempt to yank the rope from his grip.

“Roach?” Julian’s voice broke on the word. If Roach was here, that meant Geralt… Nervous excitement fluttered in his belly, mixed with trepidation. It was the whole reason he was even out here, but gods, Julian wasn’t sure he was ready for this confrontation yet.

“You know that mare?” The boy’s startled voice dragged him back to the present.

“I do believe so, yes,” Julian said absently, still watching as Roach continued her tantrum. “That’s the witcher’s mare, isn’t it? Geralt of Rivia. Is he here?”

“Aye, sir, it’s his mare all right. He’s not here, though. She’s a hellion, isn’t she?” The tone was half frustration, half admiration. “How does the witcher keep her when she’s like this?”

“She is, yes, and I’ve no idea. She just listens to him.” Julian frowned at the boy, the rest of his words finally registering. “What do you mean, he’s not here? Why’s his horse here, if he isn’t?”

The boy cast a wary look at him, and Julian realized his voice had risen slightly and taken on a sharp edge. “I wouldn’t know, sir. I just know she’s been here for weeks, but I haven’t seen the witcher around at all. You’d need to ask the stable master.” He indicated an older man standing on the far side of Roach.

“I’ll do that, thank you.” Without pausing to see that the boy had taken Pegasus to his stall for the night, Julian set off toward the ruckus.

The stablemaster saw him coming and ducked around Roach to intercept him before he could get too close. “You’ll want to stay back, sir. She’s in a right mood. Something I can help you with?”

Julian laughed. “That’s a diplomatic way of putting it. I always just said she was a pain in the arse. The boy who took my horse said something about Geralt leaving her here, and I was wondering if you could tell me what happened.”

“You know him? Wait,” the man said, “you know _her?”_

“Yes and yes,” Julian said. “She’s left a few bite marks on me over the years, in fact.”

The stablemaster gave him a calculating look. “Don’t suppose she might listen to you? She looked to be coming up lame, striding a bit short on the left hind, but when we tried to check she started fussing. If you could calm her so we can get a look, that would be a great help to us.”

Julian shrugged. “I can try, but really, the only person she reliably listens to is Geralt.” He stepped forward, stopping just out of Roach’s reach. “Roach, darling, are you terrorizing these nice men?”

Surprisingly, she quieted a bit, though she was still tugging on her lead a little and dancing away from the man trying to get a look at her leg as she eyed him. Julian stepped a little closer, careful and slow, and held out a hand.

“I’m afraid I haven’t had a chance to purloin any sugar from the kitchens for you, my dear. I’ll bring you some later, if you behave.”

She stared at him for a moment, then her head snaked out and she tried to bite him. Julian evaded with the ease of long practice. “Now, now. None of that, you hoofed menace. I’m not going to bring you treats if you bite me.”

Roach’s ears pricked at that. Julian laughed. “Oh, you recognize _that_ word, don’t you? I’d bet it’s been a good long while since you got the kinds of treats I used to give you. Geralt never did spoil you enough, did he, lovely?”

There was a touch at his elbow, and then a couple lumps of sugar were pressed into his hand.

“Now, Roachie dear, just to reiterate: you don’t get treats if you bite me. Are we clear on that?”

She snorted. Julian decided to take that as a yes and held out his palm, sugar there for the taking. Roach eyed him, eyed his hand, then apparently she decided she wanted the treat more than she wanted to take a bite out of him and delicately lipped it up.

Feeling brave, Julian stroked her neck as she ate. “There, darling, see what happens when you’re a good girl? At least when I’m around to spoil you, that is. Honestly, maybe if you were a brat to Geralt more often he’d be willing to give you treats.” Roach huffed and nudged his chest. “Yeah, I know. He’d just stand there and look disappointed in you until you gave in, wouldn’t he? Worth a try, though, maybe.”

He stayed at her head and talked to her while one of the stablemen looked at her foot. Eventually the man put her foot down and came up to talk to the stablemaster.

“Picked up a rock somewhere, out in the paddock maybe. She was probably just feeling a bit tender from it. Should be fine in a day or two.”

Julian smiled at Roach. “See, that wasn’t so bad, was it? Now behave yourself, and if you do maybe I’ll come back with more treats later.” She thumped into his chest again, which he translated as “you’d better,” and didn’t even try to bite him when he patted her nose before following after the stablemaster when he walked away.

“Thank you,” the man said. “I’d swear she’s been getting meaner since the witcher left.”

What a perfect opening. “Actually, I wanted to ask you about that,” Julian said. “The boy said he hadn’t been seen for weeks, but I can’t imagine him leaving his horse behind. He takes better care of her than he does himself, and he’d never just go and leave her.” It wasn’t a question, exactly, but he couldn’t bring himself to ask outright if Geralt had gone out after a monster and not come back. Even just the thought left him queasy.

The stablemaster shrugged. “He did. Paid us well to care for her through the winter, and left on foot. Took his swords and nothing else with him - paid extra for us to store his things in the tack room.”

Julian blinked, bewildered. “Was he going out on a contract? Any monsters around here that he would’ve been going after?”

“None that I know of,” the man replied. “I had the impression he was intending to come back for her in the spring, but he’s a witcher - who knows how they think?”

If someone had asked Julian an hour ago, he’d have said he knew pretty well how witchers thought, or at least this particular witcher. But the Geralt he knew would never, ever, not in a million years just _leave Roach behind_ somewhere. Not even with her care arranged for.

He made some kind of vague noise of acknowledgment and walked away, letting his feet carry him to the inn without paying much attention. Inquiries there brought him the discovery that Geralt hadn’t even set foot in the inn itself, only the stables, and the serving-girl who remembered seeing him pass through the courtyard thought he had only stopped long enough to conclude whatever business he had in the stables and left immediately thereafter.

What the _hell_ was he doing?

Julian barely slept that night, preoccupied with a concern for his witcher unlike anything he’d ever felt. He’d sat alone in the woods in the dead of night with only his lute for company, waiting for Geralt to finish facing down the worst monsters known to man, and still not been this frightened. It was just...fundamentally _wrong_ , the idea of Geralt willingly leaving his horse behind. She was the only thing in this world that Julian _knew_ , without a doubt, that Geralt loved. He wouldn’t just leave her. Julian floated the idea of a doppler, briefly, but then how would the doppler have gotten ahold of Roach in the first place? And that still didn’t explain why the doppler would’ve bothered to arrange for Roach’s care, if that was what it was.

None of it made sense.

He spent the next day talking to what felt like every single person in Hagge, looking for news of Geralt. Toward dusk, he struck gold with a city guardsman who’d been manning the south gate and had seen the white-haired witcher leaving on foot, carrying his swords and no other baggage, but not on his way to a contract as there hadn’t been any rumors of monsters or contracts within a day’s ride - or walk - in any direction.

It still didn’t make sense, but at least he had a direction to follow.

Julian returned to the inn, swung through the kitchen to snag a few lumps of sugar, and went to the stables. Roach grudgingly accepted the bribe and in exchange permitted him to stand in her presence without trying to eat his fingers. He stroked her mane, idly plaiting a few strands together.

“Something’s wrong, Roach, isn’t it?” he murmured. She flicked an ear at him. “I just…it feels _off_. I have the terrible feeling that it’s bad, whatever it is, and he needs help.” He swallowed hard, fear sitting cold in his stomach.

She swung her head around and butted his arm, but gently (by her usual standards, anyway).

“Would you help me?” Julian asked. “I’m going to go after him, try to find him, and we both know he doesn’t always stick to the roads when he travels. I can’t track for shit, but maybe you could help.” He paused, then added, “Plus, you’re much faster than the lazy boy I’ve been riding. And I have a bad feeling that time may count on this one.”

Roach bobbed her head. Julian laughed.

“I’d swear you actually understand me, sometimes. What kind of witcher magic did Geralt use on you, hm?”

Her snort in reply followed him down the corridor to the stablemaster’s office.

Three days later - the extra time to make sure Roach was sound before setting out - Julian left by the south road. It had taken some convincing, but Julian, once he’d introduced himself by his performing name, was well-known as “the witcher’s bard”, which finally won the stablemaster over to letting him switch horses. Although Julian was fairly sure some of it was because Pegasus was about as difficult to care for as a four-poster bed, especially in comparison to Roach, and the man had been at least partly motivated by wanting Roach off his hands.

The lady herself was eager beneath him as they left, the best and warmest gear from both Julian’s and Geralt’s packs lashed to the saddle along with enough provisions to last a couple of weeks without returning to a town.

Which was good, because Julian had no intention of coming back until he’d found his idiot witcher or died trying. He wasn’t sure when his worry had crystallized into dread certainty, but he _knew_ in the marrow of his bones that Geralt was in trouble somehow and needed help.

And Julian was determined to be that help, no matter the cost.

* * *

Geralt stared down at the acid burn searing through his breeches and into the skin of his thigh. It took an embarrassingly long moment for his cold- and hunger-slowed mind to make the connection.

This wasn’t a griffin, it was a fucking archgriffin. Which was a contract he’d have been cautious about taking on even at his best, with undamaged armor and plenty of potions and himself well-rested and fed. And here he was facing it with half-shredded armor and not a single potion to hand, after weeks of deprivation while pushing himself to the brink of his endurance. Muscle memory, mutations, and a healthy dose of luck were all that had kept him alive thus far. And it seemed that perhaps he'd finally run out of that last one.

Well, _fuck_.

He managed to dodge a viper-fast lunge, rolling to the side to stay out of range of the creature’s sharp beak as it snapped at him. Shoving himself up off the ground, he tried to get in a cut along its side as its momentum carried it past him, but it whirled away from his blade.

As it spun, he caught from the corner of his eye the wing lifting and knew the next attack would be a swipe from the talons at the joint of its wing.

He also knew he wasn’t going to be fast enough to guard against it, still off-balance from his own strike against it and with his burned leg threatening to go out from under him if he tried to turn fast enough to meet the attack.

And then he was on his back, blinking to clear his vision, feeling hot blood spilling from the deep gash its talon had opened across his ribs and staining the snow around him crimson. The archgriffin screamed its victory and leapt at him again.

With a final, desperate effort he rolled aside, snarling away the pain as the movement tore at his wounds. He couldn’t go far this time, but that was all right. He wasn’t trying to. Just far enough to avoid the beak - but still close enough to reach the thick ruff that ringed its neck.

Geralt dug in his hand and gripped with all the strength he had left, letting the momentum of the beast help him scramble up when it tried to yank back out of his grip. He wound up half-sprawled across its neck, still clinging to its ruff, sword heavy and awkward in his other hand as he struggled to bring it up and strike.

It screamed again, this time in anger, and reared back, trying to throw him off. When that didn’t work, it coiled its powerful hindquarters under itself and launched up into the sky. Luckily he was slumped far enough over it that the weight of the air pressing down as it lurched upward held him on, rather than knocking him off.

One wingbeat. Two. It was clear of the treetops now, and he thought dimly that it was probably getting enough altitude to roll and try to dump him off that way. Sure enough, it began to tilt precariously even as he finally managed to drag his sword arm into position and plunge the blade into the creature’s spine.

A final scream sounded. The tilt of its roll became an aimless, boneless slide; the weightlessness of freefall took them both and Geralt’s cold-chapped lips cracked in a smile. Not a bad way to go, he thought. At least he was taking it with him. Maybe now he’d finally get to rest.

Blessed unconsciousness stole him away just before he hit the ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact, horses can actually be trained to track by scent. I was gonna handwave it as "Roach is just Special" but it turns out she could, theoretically, be able to help find her person when he's gone missing.
> 
> Again, I just want to remind you all that everyone lives. Next up: a Conversation is had.


	11. Reunion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt wakes up and is not happy about that. Julian is not happy that he's not happy about it. They start hashing some things out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promised y'all a Talk and a Talk you shall have. They gotta borrow Roach's brain cell to make this work, but they're gonna do it.
> 
> Please note that there are mentions of Geralt's emaciated state due to self-neglect and refusing to eat. Please read with caution if that's likely to be a trigger for you!

Geralt was... _warm_.

It had been _so long_ since he’d felt warm. His body luxuriated in it, savored it, even as his mind reflexively rejected the sensation of warmth and comfort.

He relegated the struggle between the urge to accept the warmth and the need to reject it to some back corner of his mind. Instead, he set about taking stock of himself and his surroundings the way he always did when waking after a fight. He cast his mind back and tried to remember the fight itself, seeking to match up remembered injuries with the current condition of his body.

Acid burn, on the leg - yes, he could feel it. He tensed the muscle slightly to see how badly it would hurt. Badly enough, but more of a nuisance than anything else. Enough to slow him and keep his stride uneven for now, but it would mend itself soon.

Gash over the ribs - that was a bit more worrisome. He’d been losing blood rapidly from that one. Shifting almost imperceptibly gave him the sensation of stitches tugging, unpleasant but not painful, exactly. He felt weak, but only in the way he’d felt for the last while, the weakness of half-starvation and sleeplessness, not the woozy weakness of blood loss. Which meant that he’d been out long enough for his body to replenish most of what had been lost.

But moving had alerted him to another injury he didn’t remember - the feeling of cracked ribs and some truly awful bruising along his back and side. What the fuck…? Then he remembered the archgriffin taking off, stabbing it in midair, falling. Ah. He must’ve hit the ground hard, cracking ribs and bruising himself in the impact. Luckily they didn’t feel bad enough to be outright broken, no stabbing pains as he breathed. Sitting up, standing, all of that would be uncomfortable, but not impossible.

Which concluded the inventory of injuries. But none of that explained how he’d gone from fallen alongside the corpse of the archgriffin he’d slain to here, wherever _here_ was, wounds obviously tended, warmer and more comfortable than he had any right to be. There was a bedroll beneath him, he could feel it when he moved his hand at his side, and what felt like a heavy fur atop him. Geralt definitely hadn’t had either of those things with him, so how - or rather, who…?

He drew in a slow breath, scenting the air to try to get some sense of who might be with him. He kept his eyes closed and his body relaxed, not wanting to alert them that he was awake just yet.

Unfortunately that plan immediately went to shit when he caught a painfully familiar scent - not the close-but-not-quite scent of Julian, but Jaskier, the rosin and wood and silk of the lute filling out the scent to what he remembered from before the mountain. It was the scent of comfort and companionship and - and _home_. It was the scent of all the things he’d ruined and lost. His breath hitched and he tensed, hard, and between the two things it was enough to make him suddenly keenly aware of his cracked and bruised ribs, punching a small, half-stifled grunt of pain from him.

Immediately there was the sound of movement nearby and a half-frightened, half-hopeful voice nearby said his name.

He didn’t respond right away, but the owner of the voice came closer and said it again.

“Geralt? Are you awake?”

He gave up pretending and opened his eyes, blinking his vision clear. And sure enough, it was Julian - Jaskier? - whichever, kneeling beside him and looking down with worry in his gaze.

“Dunno,” he replied. “Maybe. Might be hallucinating. Or dreaming.” A furrow etched itself between those summer-sky eyes at his answer. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“I was out picking blueberries to make a pie for the Fairy Queen and stumbled across you,” Julian said waspishly, “What the hell do you _think_ I’m doing here?”

Geralt looked at him in silence for a moment, then turned his head and looked around at the neatly organized camp, tucked within a shallow cave protecting them from the elements: the saddlebags, the merrily crackling fire. “You...you came looking for me?” he asked. “You saved me.”

Julian nodded.

Geralt’s wandering gaze returned to Julian’s face. “Why?” he demanded, fury lacing his tone as he pushed himself up on his elbows. “What the _fuck_ did you do that for?” He’d been so close, Geralt thought with an ache of longing burning beneath his breastbone. So _fucking close_. How dare Julian tear the promise of peace away at the last moment like this? Hadn’t he earned that much yet?

Julian’s eyes narrowed dangerously and he sat back on his heels. “Oh, no, no no no, witcher,” he said, holding up a hand in the universal gesture for ‘stop’. “Don’t think that this was out of any sort of, of, _altruism_ or anything of that sort.”

Geralt opened his mouth to speak, but Julian ignored it and barrelled on. “No, let us be clear here: me dragging you out from under that beast’s carcass, patching you up, making camp and getting a fire going and food ready, so that you wouldn’t survive your wounds only to freeze or starve to death immediately thereafter, was an _entirely_ selfish act, I assure you.”

“Jas- Julian,” Geralt growled, “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Well,” Julian said, lips pressed into a thin line, “you see, Geralt, it’s just far less _satisfying_ to yell at a dead man. And by all the gods, I have _earned_ a good yell after what just happened.”

“Yell?” None of this was making any fucking sense, and if it didn’t start making sense soon Geralt was going to - all right, he had no idea what he was going to do considering his weakened condition, but he was at least going to _say something_ and it was going to be _very rude_.

“Yes, Geralt,” Julian snapped. “Yell. As in, for example, WHAT THE FUCK WERE YOU THINKING?”

The force of the words, with all of Julian’s considerable lung capacity and ability to project his voice behind them and enhanced by the echo effect of the small space, made Geralt’s head ring. He flinched, then hissed between his teeth as the movement caused the pain in his ribs to flare again. No coherent response sprang immediately to mind, but that didn’t seem to matter, because Julian continued without waiting for his reply.

“Because I found Roach stabled nearly a hundred miles from here, with all your gear except the swords, and they said she’d been there since the first snow. Which means you’ve been wandering around the wilderness on foot, alone, in the dead of winter, with no supplies, no bedroll, nothing, for nearly two months now!” Julian made a gesture that encompassed Geralt’s entire person. “And you clearly haven’t been eating or taking care of yourself for shit. You’re skin and fucking bones, and when I found you you were filthy on top of it. You’re welcome, by the way, for figuring out how to give an unconscious man a sponge bath outdoors in the winter without letting him catch hypothermia and die. I assume witchers _can_ die of hypothermia. If you can’t, don’t tell me; I will be very cross with you if you undermine my sense of smug achievement by telling me it wouldn’t have made a difference.” He finally paused for breath, then plunged onward. “But all that self-neglect apparently hasn’t stopped you from hunting things - like the aforementioned beast you were trapped under - so that means you’ve been going into your hunts cold and hungry and exhausted, with no potions to help and armor tattered enough to be functionally useless. So yeah, Geralt, I feel like I’m entitled to ask, at full fucking volume, _what the fuck you were thinking!”_

Stung by the annoyingly accurate summation of his recent life choices, Geralt bared his teeth and threw caution to the winds. “You want to know what I was thinking?" he snarled. "I was thinking I’d ruined the best thing that ever happened to me in more than a century of life in this shitty fucking world. I was thinking I’d destroyed the only pure thing I’ve ever fucking had. I was thinking that I had hurt the only human who’s ever bothered to try to care for me so badly that he’d rather accept abuse at a stranger’s hands and take poppy afterward than be around me ever again. And I was thinking I didn’t much fucking _care_ what happened after that.”

They stared at each other, anger and hurt searing the air between them, both breathing hard, for a long moment. Geralt’s ribs ached with each breath. He welcomed the pain.

Slowly, slowly, the fire receded from Julian’s eyes, turning into something deeper. He cocked his head and gave Geralt an uncomfortably searching look. “You were...punishing yourself?”

Geralt looked away and gave a noncommittal hum.

Julian shook his head a little, still looking at Geralt like he could see right through him. “No...not just that. It's...this is basically a witcher's way of committing suicide, isn’t it?”

“What? _No_.” His eyes flicked to Julian for a brief instant as he spat a reflexive denial, then back away.

“It is,” Julian said softly. “Because you wouldn’t just fall on your sword and be done with it, would you? That would be too clearly a failure to carry out your duties, and I’m not sure you _could_ let yourself go against your own nature that way. But you’ve made it clear that the witcher retirement plan is ‘slow and get killed’. Dying in the course of a contract is an acceptable end for you. So this...you were hastening that along by running yourself into the ground and going into each fight as unprepared as possible, giving the monsters you fought the best odds of killing you. Waiting for one to finally manage to finish you off.” His lips twisted in a pained expression. “Any suffering caused along the way was just a fringe benefit.”

Geralt couldn’t bring himself to look at Julian. “No. I wasn’t...that’s not what I was doing.”

Julian laughed without a trace of humor in it. “Well, maybe not consciously. But I know what self-destructive behavior looks like.”

That drew Geralt’s attention back. He didn’t speak, simply raised an eyebrow.

“What?” Julian said, a little wry, a little self-deprecating. “Not like I speak from experience or anything - I only spent half a year drugging myself into oblivion to stop thinking about what I wanted and couldn’t have.” He paused. “Hey - hey, what are you doing?”

Geralt, in the middle of struggling to sit up without overly aggravating his ribs or the gash across his chest, looked up briefly. “Sitting up, Julian, what’s it look like I’m doing?”

“Being an idiot, is what it looks like you’re doing,” he replied with some heat, but he reached forward and helped Geralt get settled leaning back against the wall of the cave, with a wool blanket from the second bedroll wrapped around his shoulders and the fur he’d woken up under across his lap.

“I don’t need coddled, dammit,” he muttered, but let himself be arranged without more than that token protest.

“Well then it’s a good thing I’m not coddling you, isn’t it?” Julian replied. “I’m _taking care_ of you, since you’re injured and half-starved. You might not recognize the difference, but I assure you there is one.” He lightly squeezed Geralt’s shoulder, then frowned at the bones clearly visible beneath his hand. “Speaking of which.” He busied himself by the fire for a moment, then returned with a dented tin cup full of some kind of broth, steaming gently with slivers of softened jerky floating in it.

Geralt felt as though he ought to protest this, but his body had had quite enough of the whole deprivation routine. A wave of craving, for warmth and food and rest and all the things he’d refused to allow himself over the last few months, drowned out his objections. He took the cup and sipped.

Julian got himself some as well, then settled down to sit a few feet away.

"What was it?" Geralt asked quietly. He didn't look at Julian, keeping his eyes trained on the heart of the flames.

"What was what?" Julian sounded nervous, almost defensive.

"You said you were using poppy to distract yourself from what you wanted and couldn't have. What…what was it?"

Julian laughed roughly. It sounded painful. "Are you really that thick, or are you just taunting me for some reason?"

That drew Geralt's gaze away from the campfire. He looked at Julian, brow furrowed slightly. "Taunting you? Why would I do that?"

"I don't know." Julian shrugged. "But I can't think why else you'd ask that question."

Geralt put a hand to his temples and squeezed slightly. He didn't actually have a headache, but he felt like he _should_. "Because I'm trying to understand what's going on with you, dimwit."

"I'm not the dimwit here, Geralt, if you have to ask that."

"Will you stop playing games and just answer the fucking question?" Geralt growled, patience rapidly wearing thin.

"I wanted the same thing I've wanted for more than half my fucking life," Julian snapped. "The same thing I've wanted ever since I walked over to a mysterious, brooding stranger in the corner of a shitty tavern and told him I had bread in my pants. I wanted _you_ , you fucking idiot."

Geralt blinked at him. Stared. Blinked again. "You… _what?"_

Julian rolled his eyes and took another sip of broth. "Oh, come off it, Geralt. Don't act like you didn't know."

"I _didn't_ know," Geralt said through gritted teeth, "because what I _did_ know was that if you'd fucking wanted me, you would have just said so. You've never been shy about expressing your interest in anyone before. And I know I didn’t exactly make it clear for you before, but since we met again I’ve been as clear as I knew how to be that if you did, all you had to do was tell me. So when you didn't say anything, I took that as my answer."

"You -" Julian swiveled away from the fire and faced Geralt fully. "I'm sorry, I'm going to need some clarification on that. When you say you were ‘as clear as you knew how to be'..."

Gulping down the last of the broth and slamming the now-empty cup down on the stone beside him, Geralt started counting off on his fingers as he spoke. "I tried to apologize the first time I saw you again. I offered to help if you were working at the Lotus out of necessity rather than by choice. When you made it clear you'd chosen that, I respected it. You told me you'd changed your name, so I learned to call you by the name you wanted, not the name I'd known you by for twenty years. I stayed and had sex with you, so I _know_ you knew I was interested in you physically."

Having run out of fingers on one hand, he held up the other and kept going. "I came back to see you, to be with you, every time I had the coin and was in the area, because it was the only way I could be near you again." Geralt paused for a moment, then, feeling compelled to be honest, mumbled, “ _alsothesexwasreallygood._ ” He cleared his throat and continued. "The night you got hurt, I did everything I could think of to try to care for you. For fuck's sake, Julian, I told you stories til you fell asleep - when have you ever known me to do that before?"

Julian opened his mouth to say something. Geralt ignored it.

"And I didn't do that with any expectation of being rewarded, but I hoped that maybe it would be enough to show you that I could and would do better by you if you wanted me to. If you'd give me the chance. But then everything just…went back to normal, so I took that as my answer."

Julian stared at Geralt as he ranted, shocked and feeling as though he’d been knocked off-balance by the sudden flow of words and the clear picture of distress his witcher made. His gold eyes were half-wild, lips parted slightly as he sucked in air, longing and hurt twisting his sharp features. The blanket had fallen away from his shoulders, and Julian could see the way his ribs moved with each heaving breath.

"And then that last night. At Trestka’s…" Geralt whispered. His chest hurt at the memory, in a way that had nothing to do with the wound over his ribs. He dropped his hands and bit his lower lip, looking down at them. "I tried to tell you, and you - it was clear there was no fixing what I’d done to us. To whatever might have been there between us before, whether friendship or anything else. After that, all I could do was give you the space you seemed to want. I couldn't keep _inflicting_ my presence upon you, not once you'd made your feelings on the matter so clear." He flicked his eyes up as he spat the words bitterly, then fell silent and looked away again.

The silence this time was considerably more strained.

"I'm sorry," Julian finally said, so quietly it was only Geralt's enhanced senses that allowed him to hear it. "What I said that night, I was - I don't even know. I was all tangled up inside and hurting, and you were bringing it all up to the surface by being there and trying to, to bridge the distance I'd put between us, so…I lashed out at you. I shouldn't have."

Geralt shrugged, a wry smile tugging at his lips as the aching thing in his chest settled and faded at Julian’s words. "Let's call it even, then. You were hurting and lashed out at me, just as I had with you at our last parting, and we both said shit we didn't mean and came to regret it later. I’m sorry, Julian. I’ve regretted my words every single second since you walked away. I forgive you for your harsh words. Can you forgive me for mine?"

Julian looked askance at him. "My outburst drove you to _this_ ," as he waved a hand at their surroundings and Geralt’s injuries, "nearly got you _killed_ , and you can still forgive me?"

He gave another shrug. "And my outburst robbed you of your music for the past two years. You didn't mean it. I didn’t mean it either. We're here now. That's all that matters, for me."

"You always did have a way of distilling things down to their barest essence," Julian remarked dryly. "But I suppose you're right. And that being the case - yes, my dear friend, I forgive you as well."

The silence returned, but comfortable this time, feeling like any one of hundreds of nights spent sitting by hundreds of campfires over the years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may have noticed that while there were apologies and forgiveness, there was no actual love confession in this chapter. Hang in there a little longer, okay? We'll get there.


	12. Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They've sorted out apologies and forgiveness, but now they need to tackle that whole 'love' thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The boys: have a Talk about feelings and apologizing and whatnot  
> Jaskier: so all that was just about being friends again, right?
> 
> Or, Geralt is NOT the only himbo in this relationship.

"You scared the fucking shit out of me, by the way," Julian said conversationally a few minutes later. He kept his tone light, feeling the yawning pit of treacherous emotion opening beneath his feet but needing to say this anyway.

Geralt glanced over for a split second, then turned back to the fire. "What?"

"Riding into that clearing and finding you like that. Unconscious, blood fucking everywhere, pinned under the fuckoff-biggest griffin I've ever seen in my life, already gone so cold the snow wasn’t melting where it touched your skin. I -" His breath hitched sharply. Geralt's glance was even sharper. "I thought you were _dead_ , you bastard. I thought I was too late, that - that you'd died out here, alone, and the last thing I said to you was that _fucking horseshit_ at Trestka's that night, and I'd never be able to, to take it back and tell you I didn't mean it and you'd died thinking I _hated_ you and…"

Suddenly it was all too much: the months of loneliness and pining after Geralt. The terror at finding him in such a state. The adrenaline he'd ruthlessly suppressed because there was no room for panic when Geralt needed him functional enough to stitch him up and set up camp and make sure he didn't die of his stupid fucking wounds. The sick horror of seeing the toll the past months had taken on Geralt's body. The unbearable relief of forgiveness, making his heart feel full to bursting with it.

Julian dropped his face into his hands and dissolved into tears, wrenching sobs that shook his whole body. He tried to stop, sure the sound must grate terribly on the witcher's ears, but he couldn't.

He jolted and choked on a sob when he felt Geralt's arms come around him. Julian hadn't heard him move, as per usual, but suddenly he was there, thinner and more fragile than he should be but still a comforting source of strength to lean against. Julian let Geralt pull him close, wrapping the blanket around them both.

"Sorry," he gasped. Geralt shushed him and stroked a gentle hand through his hair.

"It's all right, Jaskier," he said. "I'm here. Not dead. I'm sorry I frightened you."

The abrupt silence that followed those words felt like a blow to Geralt’s senses. "What's wrong?" he asked, looking down, trying to catch those expressive blue eyes and figure out what had happened.

And then he ran the last few seconds back through his head and winced. "Sorry," he said. "J-"

Fingers pressed over his lips and stopped him.

"Do you know how badly I've wanted to let you call me that again?" His voice shook, barely louder than a whisper. "Ever since the night you took care of me, I've wanted to let myself reclaim that part of me. Wanted to let myself be Jaskier, the witcher's bard, again. But I was so afraid to let my guard down and get hurt again that I didn't. Couldn’t." They stared at each other for a long moment.

"Say it again," he whispered.

A slow smile spread across Geralt's face. "Jaskier," he said. "Do you know how badly I've wanted to be allowed to call you that again?"

Jaskier blinked rapidly, as though fighting back tears. "And - and all those things you said," he asked, "you still mean them?"

Geralt gave him a confused look. "I - of course. Why wouldn't I?"

Jaskier shrugged a little. "You - well, you pushed me away as Jaskier before. But you let yourself be good to me and want me when we met again, as Julian. I wondered if - if maybe you only liked me as Julian."

"I like you no matter what you call yourself, you melodramatic idiot," Geralt said fondly, shaking his head. "Jaskier, Julian, it doesn't matter - you're still you, either way."

Blue eyes widened. "You like me?" Jaskier asked, giving Geralt an exaggeratedly incredulous look, though the grin spoiled it somewhat. "You _like_ me," he crowed, laughing and shaking a finger in Geralt’s face, "you said it and you can't take it back now. You've admitted to having one whole positive feeling about me and there's no un-saying it!"

Geralt rolled his eyes, caught Jaskier's chin between his fingers, tipped his face up and kissed him silent. Jaskier melted into the gentle hold and gentler kiss, letting out a low hum of pleasure for a moment before suddenly startling and drawing back to stare up at Geralt wide-eyed.

Confusion and uncertainty tightened Jaskier’s throat, drew his voice tight and clipped. "What are you doing?" he asked.

"I -" Geralt looked confused. "I was kissing you? I thought…" His jaw clenched, the fondness fading from his eyes, and Jaskier could see him trying to put his walls back up to hide his hurt at the perceived rejection. "Shouldn't have assumed," he said brusquely, letting go of Jaskier and shifting backwards. "Sorry."

"No," Jaskier said, grabbing at Geralt's arms to keep him from moving away. "Nonono, that's not - I didn't mean it that way, get _back_ here."

"Then what did you mean, Jaskier?" Geralt's voice was painfully flat and even, all emotion pressed from it. But at least he stopped pulling away, even if he didn't come any closer.

"I don't - I didn't think you'd… I thought all of that, the stuff we were talking about before, was about…about being friends again. Traveling companions. Whatever. Just, you know, with you being nicer to me. Not…" Jaskier stammered his way through an almost-coherent explanation, dropping off into uncertain silence after.

Geralt was staring at him like he was a basilisk that had started meowing. "Jaskier," he said slowly, "you do remember that we've fucked a dozen times in the past year, right? Why would I suddenly not want you anymore? Unless…" He paused, and suddenly a look of shame and misery and seething self-hatred suffused his features. "Fuck," he spat, tugging free of Jaskier's grip and turning away. "I forgot. That wasn't - it was just business for you, wasn't it? Coin for services, nothing more. I shouldn't have taken that to mean you actually wanted it. Sorry. I won't do it again."

Dropping the blanket from his shoulders and leaving it with Jaskier, he shoved himself clumsily to his feet and took a few limping steps away, toward the mouth of the cave. The movement pulled at his stitches and made his cracked ribs ache fiercely. He ignored his wounds, wrapping his arms around himself and staring blindly at the dark night outside.

_"Geralt."_

The plaintive note in Jaskier's voice pierced the storm of emotions battering at him. He turned his head slightly. The silver curtain of his hair hid his face, but his posture clearly indicated he was listening.

"That's not what I meant either," Jaskier said. "I'm making a mess of this. I'm sorry." There was a rustling sound as he got up and followed, stopping behind Geralt but within arm's reach. His hands came to rest at Geralt's waist, tugging lightly. "Please," he said.

Reluctantly Geralt followed the hands, allowing himself to be turned around to face the other man. "Then what _did_ you mean?" he asked again, keeping his head bowed and eyes firmly cast down. He couldn't bear to see what he was sure would be pity in those blue eyes.

Jaskier took a slow, deep breath and blew it out. "You said," he began carefully, choosing each word as he went along, "that you _like_ me as both Jaskier and Julian. But I didn't assume it followed that you would _want_ me as both, too. You never wanted me that way before, so I figured the wanting had more to do with the context in which we met again - and that without that context, there'd be no reason to continue that side of things."

Geralt's head snapped up and he fixed Jaskier with a piercing golden stare. "I _always_ wanted you that way," he said, sounding deeply affronted.

"You _what?"_ Jaskier's voice broke on the word. "I - you - but then, then why - you never said - you never _did_ anything! I threw myself at you for _years_ , and you never responded, not even once. Why not?"

"I couldn’t let myself believe you meant it. I figured you were just being...you.”

Jaskier narrowed his eyes. “Are you calling me a slut?”

“Yes,” Geralt said bluntly, but his lips twitched before he grew serious again. “Hush. Let me… You never said you actually wanted that of me. So I thought it was just some kind of teasing thing, all in good fun for you. I didn’t dare react as though I thought you meant it, in case you didn’t.” He grew quiet for a moment, then added, “And even if I _had_ been sure, I still wouldn’t have said anything.”

Jaskier’s jaw dropped and he sucked in an angry breath with which to demand the reasoning behind that ridiculous decision.

Geralt didn’t let him get that far. “It wouldn't have been fair to you," he explained, looking away again. His throat felt tight. "I - I couldn’t have given you what you deserved. I would have gotten so much more from that arrangement than you would have. I couldn't take advantage of you like that."

The silence stretched, and stretched, and stretched some more. Jaskier stared at his witcher, lips parted in something between consternation and wonder.

"Geralt," he said gently, getting his expression under control with an effort, "one of these days very soon we are going to have a _talk_ about your self-esteem issues. Because that is very sweet of you, but also unspeakably absurd." His hands came up to frame Geralt's face. "Hey. Look at me, huh?"

Reluctantly Geralt met Jaskier's eyes, expecting to see judgment or pity. Instead, all he saw was genuine affection shining back at him. The tightness in him eased just a little bit.

"We're both grown men," Jaskier said. "Perfectly capable of making our own choices about things like this. Right?" Geralt nodded once. "Right, then. Let’s just get it all out there in the open. I would very much like it if we kept having sex, as frequently as is humanly - or witcherly - possible. You?"

"Yes," Geralt said a bit hoarsely. "Yeah, I'd - I'd like that."

"Good! Good." Jaskier smiled. Then his smile dimmed slightly and he swallowed hard before continuing. "There's just one other thing I'd like us to be clear on, then." His thumbs rubbed nervously across Geralt's cheekbones.

Geralt brought his own hands up and covered Jaskier's, calming them. "Jask. It's all right. Just tell me."

Jaskier bit his lip, then swallowed hard and plunged onward. "It's just - in case you haven't figured it out by now, witcher, I - I care about you quite a bit. I might even say, if I didn't think it would send you fleeing into the night," he flashed Geralt a cheeky little grin, though it trembled around the edges, "that I love you. And while I don't wish to speak for you, especially on such weighty words as love, unless I'm reading all of this terribly wrong I think you harbor a reasonable degree of reciprocal affection for me as well."

Geralt opened his mouth to speak, though he hadn't the faintest idea what he would have said, but Jaskier rushed past without a pause.

"So I don't, I - I don't want for this to be some kind of, well, not coin-for-services I suppose, call it perhaps services-for-services arrangement. You know, the kind of thing where we pretend not to feel anything and tell ourselves and each other that it's only about getting off. Because that's - " he sucked in a shaky breath, eyes falling shut for a moment, "that's what hurt so much these last few months. I had you in my bed, but that's _all_ I had of you, and it wasn't enough. It was killing me, to have that and nothing more. So if that's all it would be, Geralt, I still - I'd still like to return to the Path with you, but only as we were before, friends and companions but nothing more because if I have to choose between being your bed-partner and being your friend there isn’t even a contest between the two, and I don't think I could handle it if -"

Jaskier knew he was rambling, his heartbeat speeding up with the terror that as soon as he stopped speaking Geralt would answer him - and it would be the wrong answer. But he couldn’t seem to stop himself until Geralt laid a finger over his lips, cutting him off mid-ramble. "Jaskier," he said, "shut up."

But he was smiling as he said it, a full, genuine smile the likes of which Jaskier had only seen a handful of times in two-plus decades. Jaskier found himself smiling back, helplessly, captivated by the unexpected warmth of it.

"Hard to reassure you," Geralt remarked, still smiling, "when you won't let me get a word in edgewise."

"Oh," Jaskier said. "Oh. All right. Sorry." He shut his mouth with an audible click of teeth and waited, fidgeting slightly.

Geralt sighed and let his hand slide around the back of Jaskier's neck, then rested his forehead against Jaskier's and closed his eyes. He swallowed hard.

"You…you haven't read anything wrong," he said. "You've always seen me in a way no one else has. You seem to know what I'm feeling better than I do."

Jaskier, with a truly heroic effort, managed to bite back a comment about setting a low bar.

Geralt took a slow, steadying breath. Let it out, trying to let some of the tension in him go with it. It didn’t help much. "I do care for you," he admitted. "Greatly. I would be no happier than you would with an arrangement of convenience and nothing more. If that were all I wanted, I'd still be visiting you at the Lotus every few weeks. I wouldn't have gotten involved the night you got hurt, wouldn't have gone back for you at Trestka's. I -"

_\- love you._ The words were on the tip of his tongue, but he flinched away from them. Something like him wasn't meant for that, to love and be loved the way a human might hope for. No one could ever love a witcher, and a witcher daring to love a human was only setting himself up to be hurt. These were _fundamental truths_ about his existence, burned so deeply into his mind he could scarcely imagine trying to defy them.

Only…Jaskier already _did_ love him. He'd said as much. So at least one part of that fundamental truth had just been disproven. Perhaps the rest, too, could be called into question?

"You're right. I do… I love you, Jaskier." The words were rough and painful-sounding, forced out past a knot of terror that was trying to choke him. But he spoke them, and he meant them, and he hoped that Jaskier might understand -

Jaskier’s breath hitched audibly. The tang of saltwater hit Geralt’s senses a moment later. His eyes flew open and he pulled back, looking at Jaskier in alarm.

But before he could say anything Jaskier was kissing him, arms twined around his neck. Geralt pushed his hand up into Jaskier's hair, cupping the back of his head and keeping him close, and wrapped his other arm around Jaskier's waist. He poured himself into the kiss, all his affection, all the words he couldn't bring himself to say, and simply trusted that Jaskier would know, the way he somehow always did.

When they pulled back, Jaskier was beaming brighter than the midsummer sun even as tears slid down his cheeks. "I always longed to hear those words from you. Dreamed of it. But I gave up on it a long time ago, and hearing it now, long after I'd resigned myself to a life without ever hearing it…" He sighed happily and pulled back a hand to carelessly swipe the tears from his face.

Geralt watched him cautiously. "This is…good, then? I didn't hurt you, or upset you, or…"

Jaskier's laugh rang out, echoing almost musically in the enclosed space. "No, dear heart, you didn't do anything wrong. I'm simply overcome by emotion."

"Hm." Now _that_ was familiar ground, enough at least that the lingering worry dissipated.

"Hm," Jaskier echoed, rolling his eyes. He drew back a little and looked at Geralt, then said, "My dear witcher, has it escaped your notice that you're standing in a cave in the middle of winter without a shirt on? You're going to freeze."

Geralt gave a careful shrug with one shoulder. "The fire's right there," he said, nodding toward it. "It takes enough of the chill off. I'm fine."

Jaskier shook his head and took Geralt's hand, towing him back toward the bedrolls and blankets they'd abandoned. "You know, darling, when we have that talk about your self-esteem, we are also going to have a talk about taking proper care of yourself. Sit." He pushed Geralt down in the general direction of the bedroll, continuing past to go rummage in one of the saddlebags. Watching him, Geralt noticed a familiar case sitting with the bags and raised an eyebrow.

"You brought your lute," Geralt observed as he obediently settled onto the bedroll to get some rest.

"I did." Jaskier pulled a chunk of slightly stale, irregularly-shaped flatbread from one of the packs and tossed it to him. "You need something more solid than broth. Eat, and then you can get some sleep."

"Hm." Deftly he caught the bread, tore a small chunk off, and ate it. "Your lute - does that mean - does that mean you feel like singing again?"

Jaskier glanced over and saw a soft light in his gold eyes, half guilt and half hope. He smiled slightly. "I think perhaps I do." That was a flat out lie. He didn't just _think, perhaps_ , he might feel like singing again - his fingers _itched_ for the strings and his throat felt full with the voice grief had kept locked away for so long. He reached out and laid a hand on the lute case, wondering if Geralt would mind terribly if he played a bit before shutting up so the witcher could get some sleep.

Geralt solved his dilemma for him a moment later.

"Would you…" Geralt looked away for a beat and seemed to be gathering his courage. "Would you sing for me? I've missed it. I don't sleep as well after a day of silence anymore."

Jaskier gaped for a long moment before falling back on the kind of bickering that had formed the basis of their friendship for so many years. "I know you've been starving yourself, but it must have been worse than I thought if you're so hungry that you'll settle for some fillingless pie, hm?" He took refuge in teasing to cover the wave of emotion that swamped him at Geralt actually _asking_ him to play, but the fond quirk of his lips belied the needling words.

Geralt rolled his eyes and took another bite of the bread. "Are you ever going to let me live that down? It was _eight years ago_ , Jaskier. And I've apologized at least a dozen times."

"Probably not," Jaskier said cheerfully, but he brought the case back over to sit beside him. Unclasping the case, he stroked reverent fingers over the gleaming wood before lifting it free and settling the familiar weight across his lap, in his arms. It all felt so right that it ached somewhere beneath his ribs: a camp, a fire, his lute in hand and Geralt beside him listening. It felt like coming home, only _more_ , somehow - like returning to a home he’d thought was long since destroyed and discovering that it still stood with a fire burning in the hearth, just waiting for him to come back.

He had to clear his throat and blink back tears before he could speak again. "What would you like to hear, darling?"

"Doesn't matter," Geralt said. He reached over and brushed his fingertips over Jaskier’s shoulder, the gentle touch helping to ground him again. Somehow, Jaskier suspected, Geralt knew exactly what he was doing. "Just want to hear you."

He set about tuning the instrument, pleased to find that twenty-plus years of muscle memory hadn’t abandoned him after two years away. His fingers still found the right pegs without looking, still turned them the exact right amount in the right direction to bend the notes as he wished; he could still hear and feel and almost _taste_ the harmonic hum when each note slotted itself into place with its brethren.

“Careful, love,” he teased as he worked at it, “you can’t just _say_ things like that, you know. The shock alone could kill me.” Geralt didn’t answer, but Jaskier could almost hear the eye-roll in response and picture the affectionate smile that went with it.

With the lute in tune, he began to play: aimless chords, wandering fingers, simply letting himself grow re-accustomed to it. After a few minutes he started humming under his breath with it, snatches of one song or another as befit whichever chords he was strumming at the moment.

He could feel Geralt’s eyes on him as he played, warming him like sunlight, and he found himself mulling over the long and twisting path that had brought them here. Without thinking, he found his fingers shaping the notes for a song he’d written years ago - the song that had gotten him sent away by the Countess de Stael, in fact, when she’d heard it. She had, quite understandably, not appreciated him writing and singing love songs about someone else in her home. He’d never played it again after he left her that day.

Licking his lips a little nervously, he plucked the intro and sang.

_I would sing my songs to the sea_   
_Pearly foam on golden sands_   
_I would cast my voice to the beat_   
_Made by the waves as they land_   
_But even I cannot sing so loud_   
_To reach so far away_

Carefully, Geralt laid down, having polished off the bread in only a few bites. He arranged himself so that he could watch Jaskier play, drinking in the sight like water after two years wandering the desert.

_The streams flow, the rivers bend_   
_The ocean beckons without end_   
_But I stand here, ankle-deep_   
_Barely enough to cool my feet_   
_It’s not enough, not enough_   
_It’s not enough_

The song was lilting and lovely, but so melancholy it almost hurt to listen to. The feeling of reaching for something unattainable, comparing yourself to your heart’s desire and seeing just how little you have to offer by comparison…well. It was agonizingly familiar.

_I would play ‘neath a waterfall’s spray_   
_Pale froth in gilded light_   
_I would strum to the thund’rous tirade_   
_Of rivers taking flight_   
_But even I cannot play so loud_   
_To be heard so far away_

But why, Geralt wondered, would Jaskier of all people know that feeling? The famous bard, respected professor, sought-after lover - how could he ever find himself not enough for anyone? What could put that wistfulness in his voice? And then, as Jaskier slid into the chorus again, it hit him.

Oh.

_Oh._

Geralt was no poet himself, to try to tease meaning from metaphor, but the imagery Jaskier had chosen was abruptly as crystal clear as the waters of which Jaskier was singing. ‘Pearly’ on ‘golden’, ‘pale’ with ‘gilded’.

_Oh, fuck._

If he believed in any gods, in that moment he would’ve been thanking them all for the fact that his mutations prevented him from blushing. Because if not for that, he was quite sure he would be flushed crimson at the realization that Jaskier had written this song _about him._ All right, yes, most of Jaskier's repertoire was about him in one way or another, but it was one thing to bear it when it was wild tales of imagined heroism and quite another to hear something like _this,_ knowing himself to be the subject.

The music changed, then. Hazily Geralt tried to remember what he’d heard Jaskier call this kind of not-verse-not-chorus. A...an arch? A traverse? Wait, no. Bridge! That was it.

Apparently the warmth and food and company, in combination with his exhaustion and injuries, was sending his thoughts wandering and making him feel a bit silly. He didn’t mind it nearly as much as he probably should have.

_But here, I have only the fields_   
_Dry earth beneath my hands_   
_A tiny brook from which to drink_   
_As it wends about my lands_

_But flowers I'll plant along its banks_   
_So petals may fall one day_   
_Perhaps my brook will carry them_   
_And reach so far away_

But as Jaskier played and sang the...whatever…Geralt’s attention was drawn back a little into focus. The mood of it changed, from wistful and longing and sad to peaceful and almost determined. And then he sang the chorus once more, but at the end, it changed. Where the chorus before had ended with the lament of ‘It’s not enough, it’s not enough’, this time it ended differently.

_The streams flow, the rivers bend_   
_The ocean beckons without end_   
_But I stand here, ankle-deep_   
_Barely enough to cool my feet_   
_But it’s enough, it’s enough_   
_For me_

The final notes faded. Jaskier sighed, then grimaced and looked at the tips of his fingers before setting his lute back into its case. Geralt made a soft, inquiring sound.

The bard smiled and scooted closer, reaching out to tuck a wayward strand of hair behind Geralt’s ear. “I can’t play as long as I used to, love. Going to have to build the calluses back up again.”

Geralt hummed an acknowledgment. That made sense.

And then, before he could stop himself, he mumbled, “Jask. That song…”

Jaskier’s fingers went still against Geralt’s cheek. “What about it?”

“‘S about…us?”

A tiny sound punched its way out of Jaskier’s chest, and he smiled ruefully. “Yes. I thought…I thought there was no way you’d ever return my affections. I was trying to work through my longing in song, as I usually do, and I realized that even if you never did love me the way I wanted you to, I could still love you from afar and let that be enough.”

“Don’ have to now,” Geralt murmured.

“No, you’re right,” Jaskier said, warm and fond. “I can love you from right up close now, can’t I?”

“Hm.”

Jaskier laughed. “Rest, my witcher. I can’t play for you any more tonight, but I can sing for you if you like.”

“Mhmm.”

Clearing his throat, Jaskier began. “When a humble bard -”

_“No._ ” Geralt couldn’t force his eyes open, but he refused to fall asleep listening to _that_ song.

“All right, all right.” Jaskier snickered briefly, then switched to an old lullaby from Kaedwen, humming rather than singing the lyrics. His voice was a bit rough, out of practice and wavering slightly. It was still the most beautiful sound Geralt had ever heard.

He fell asleep smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In my defense, I haven't written poetry in at least ten years and I've never even attempted anything in a song-like form before. Please be gentle!


	13. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their first night back in civilization together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise epilogue! I decided we all needed some softness and a touch of smut to wrap things up with.

Geralt couldn't help the quiet moan that slipped out as he lowered himself into the bath.

Beside him, Jaskier smirked. "Feel good?"

"Hnnngh," Geralt agreed, and submerged himself completely.

When he came back up Jaskier was laughing. "And here I thought I could only get those kinds of sounds out of you in bed."

Geralt snorted. "Not only, but I like your methods better. Bath's a distant second." He folded his legs up until his knees broke the surface of the water so that he had room to sink down and get his entire torso underwater. Leaning his head back against the edge of the tub, he looked up at Jaskier with a faint smile.

Jaskier returned the smile. "All right, I suppose I can accept that. You just relax there for a bit then."

Eyes closing to better bask in the moment, Geralt was only too happy to do as told. If he were honest, he'd missed these moments terribly - the mundane intimacy of it, Jaskier gently bullying him into letting himself be cared for. It healed something in him a little more to have this back.

And then he remembered that he was not only allowed to be honest about feeling that way, but had promised Jaskier he'd actively try to do so.

"Missed this," was all he said, his voice a low rumble and eyes still closed. He cracked an eye open, though, when he heard Jaskier's breath catch and caught the stinging scent of tears.

"Happy tears, love," Jaskier immediately reassured him. He smiled crookedly. "I missed it, too."

"Hm." Geralt closed his eyes again and let himself drift, half-listening to Jaskier humming as he fiddled with their packs.

The humming stopped some indeterminate amount of time later. Jaskier’s hand brushed over the top of Geralt's head, calling him back to the present. "Time to make a start on this," he said. "Sit up a little bit for me, will you? Wait - you've dried out a bit from sitting there, dunk again first, please."

Geralt did as asked, sitting back up and swiping water out of his eyes. The scent of sweet almond oil filled the air as Jaskier began working it into the tangled mess months of neglect had turned Geralt's hair into. Working in small sections, Jaskier started with finger-detangling and progressed to using the carved bone comb to ease through the snarls and knots.

But when Jaskier reached one particularly stubborn section that had progressed past knotted to outright matted and spent nearly ten minutes working on it, Geralt sighed.

"Jaskier."

"Hm?"

"If it's that bad, just cut it." He ignored the pang of regret as he said it, silently reminding himself that it was his own fault and he had no right to be upset about the consequences.

"I will do no such thing!" Jaskier sounded downright scandalized.

"I would," Geralt argued. It was true. He'd have hated having to, but left to his own devices he probably would've skipped even trying to salvage the disaster he'd let it become and just gone straight to cutting the whole mess off.

"Which is why _I'm_ doing this, and not you," Jaskier said firmly. "Because unlike you, I have the patience and willingness to put in the work in order to prevent us from having to commit such an egregious crime against your beauty."

Geralt jerked as though Jaskier had struck him and growled quietly. Jaskier’s compliments had, ironically, grown _harder_ to bear since they'd become lovers, now that he knew the man truly meant every word of them.

Jaskier went still. "Too much?"

With an effort, Geralt stopped growling. "Yeah," he said gruffly. "Sorry."

Long fingers slipped around under his chin and tipped his head back so that Jaskier could press a kiss to his forehead. "It's all right, darling. I know I'm overly exuberant in extolling your virtues." Jaskier paused, then repeated the phrase slowly, rolling it on his tongue as if to taste it. "Overly exuberant in extolling your virtues…It's got a good rhythm, doesn't it?" He muttered it again, quieter.

It broke the tension better than anything else would've. Geralt snorted, then brought a dripping hand up out of the water to tug Jaskier's hand away from his neck and kiss the inside of his wrist. "Love you, idiot," he mumbled.

Jaskier broke off his mumbled recitation of the phrase. "I love you too, prick. Now give me back my hand, I've still got work to do."

It took long enough that Geralt almost restarted their argument about the more expedient method, but eventually Jaskier's persistence was rewarded. Following a scrub with some kind of aloe and salt concoction - to get the excess oil out, apparently - Geralt leaned against the side of the tub, feeling utterly boneless and content as Jaskier drew the comb through from roots to ends in long, slow strokes, over and over.

"See?" Jaskier said eventually. He tapped the comb smartly against the top of Geralt's head. "Now don't ever let it get like that again, understand?"

"I won't," he promised.

"Good. Now heat the water back up and get the hell out, it's my turn with the tub."

* * *

They wound up tangled in sheets slightly damp with bathwater, hands roaming as they traded slow, languorous kisses.

"Missed this, too," Geralt said, nuzzling along the line of Jaskier's jaw.

Jaskier laughed breathlessly, tipping his head back to give Geralt easier access. "Oh, yes," he said, then gasped as Geralt tweaked a nipple. His hips rocked forward, cock sliding along his lover's thigh. "Ooh," he breathed. "Careful, love."

Geralt pulled back a little and looked at him. "Careful? What's wrong?"

Giving him a pointed look down at his bared chest, ribs still noticeable beneath the muscle, Jaskier raised an eyebrow. "You're still recovering from months of starvation, in case you've forgotten."

Geralt rolled his eyes with a huff. "I'm fine, Jaskier. It'll take a while to fill out enough to be fully back to normal, but I _feel_ fine already." He leaned back in to kiss Jaskier. "I don't want to wait that long to be with you," he whispered against the bard's lips.

How could Jaskier say no to that? He groaned into Geralt's mouth. "Fuck, when you put it like that…" He ducked his head and licked up the side of Geralt's neck, then whispered in his ear, "How d'you want me?"

But Geralt shook his head, tugging at Jaskier's hair to bring him back up where they could see each other. "That's not the question," he said. "The question is, how do _you_ want _me?"_ Before Jaskier could say anything, Geralt continued. "Every time we've been together until now has been as courtesan and client. You've been focused on pleasing me. Even when you took charge that one time, it was because you knew I wanted that. Now it's my turn to focus on you."

"Gods," Jaskier groaned. "You…I can't decide if that's the sweetest thing or the hottest thing I've ever heard." He dove in, kissing Geralt hard. "Both," he said when he pulled back. "Definitely both. I want to have you, love," he added, sliding a hand down Geralt's back and gripping his arse. "Can I?"

With a gasp, Geralt pressed back into Jaskier's touch. "Fuck," he said, meeting Jaskier's gaze with wide eyes, pupils nearly swallowing the molten gold of his irises.

"Oh, you want it bad, don't you, darling?" It wasn't really a question. They could both feel how painfully hard Geralt was already, the way he was breathing fast with anticipation.

"Yes," he answered anyway, "gods, yes. How…?"

Jaskier pushed lightly at Geralt's shoulder, putting him on his back and following to kneel between his legs. "Like this," he said. "I want to see you."

Geralt nodded, trembling slightly as Jaskier slipped off the bed and went to find the oil. He felt…exposed. Vulnerable. He’d never - well, he’d been fucked before, obviously. By Jaskier, even. But it was only ever fucking, only about sensation and pleasure. No one had ever cared about _seeing_ him like that before. The way Jaskier said it, it sounded like the bard didn't want to fuck him so much as he wanted to…to _make love._

His uncertainty was buried under a surge of pleasure as Jaskier slid a finger into him, slick and perfect. Geralt groaned, rolling his hips into the touch. "More," he said, half demand and half plea.

Jaskier chuckled. "Greedy little thing, aren't you?" But he pressed into Geralt with another finger anyway, giving him an indulgent smile as he did.

The stretch, the slight burn - it was perfect. Jaskier crooked his fingers, stroked against that spot inside, and Geralt cried out as sparks flickered up his spine. His eyes had fallen shut, and when he opened them again he saw Jaskier looking at him with an expression he couldn’t describe: avid, almost desperate, but soft somehow.

He reached for Jaskier, then, unable to help himself. Geralt needed him closer, needed to feel skin against skin everywhere, not just where Jaskier was steadily working him open.

Jaskier came willingly, wound up pressed against Geralt’s side and gasping kisses against his neck as his fingers moved between Geralt’s legs. He pressed a third finger in, coming up to swallow the moan that escaped Geralt’s lips.

“Enough,” Geralt begged, kissing Jaskier over and over between words, arching into the touch. It was too much and not enough all at once. “Jaskier, please. I need more. I need you.”

Jaskier muffled a soft, wounded sound into Geralt’s jaw, nipping at him. “All right,” he said, breathing hard. He slipped his fingers free and moved to kneel between Geralt’s legs, clean hand gripping his thigh hard enough to dig fingertip bruises into flesh on a normal man while he slicked himself up with his other hand.

By the time Jaskier was pressing into him, Geralt was shaking, consumed by a need so strong it was almost terrifying. Would’ve been terrifying, if it were anyone else he felt this for, but Jaskier…he trusted him in a way he’d never never trusted anyone before. Jaskier was _safe_ \- Geralt could let himself come apart and know, without any doubt, that Jaskier would be able to put him back together again.

Which was good, because Jaskier started to move then, and all of a sudden Geralt could barely breathe. He wrapped his legs around Jaskier’s slim hips, reached up and twined his arms around the bard’s neck - he’d never admit it, not even to Jaskier, but he was clinging and couldn’t seem to help it. It was so good, almost too good, to have Jaskier here with him, in him, like this, after he’d thought this was lost forever. And this time, there was no pretense between them: no coin changing hands, nothing transactional about it, only them, together, at last.

Jaskier gazed down at his witcher as he thrust into him again and again, lost in the expression of blissful abandon softening the hard lines of Geralt’s face. It was like watching some last, hidden wall or shield come down, leaving Jaskier almost awestruck by it. He shifted, adjusting the angle a little, then a little more - until he knew he’d hit the spot he was looking for by the way Geralt arched into him and let out a little gasping cry.

“There we are, darling,” Jaskier breathed, dipping down to kiss him. “Good?”

“Yes,” Geralt gasped the word out. “Fuck, Jaskier, I…I…”

“What is it, sweetheart? What do you need?” Jaskier let his lips trail from the corner of Geralt’s mouth along his cheekbone.

But when he drew back a little, Geralt shook his head slightly. “Just…just you, Jask.”

The nickname affected him more than he’d have guessed it would, especially the way Geralt said it. Tremors rippled through him and his thrusts grew erratic for a moment before he got himself under control again. Fuck, but he was close though.

“You have me,” he assured Geralt. “You have me. All of me, anything you want, everything.”

Geralt moaned, eyes fluttering shut for the briefest of moments before they flew open again and fixed on him, unwavering. He was close, too, Jaskier could tell, feeling the slick heat of him tightening, tensing in anticipation of release.

And then Geralt sucked in a sharp breath and his hands flexed against Jaskier’s shoulders, biting in as words tumbled from his lips.

“I love you, Jaskier.”

It shoved Jaskier over the edge almost instantly and he gave a wordless shout, slamming in one final time and holding still, spilling himself inside Geralt.

The feeling of Jaskier coming hot and wet inside him brought Geralt over too, cock pulsing and spend painting across both their chests as he shuddered.

When Jaskier made as if to withdraw and lie beside him, Geralt’s arms tightened around him, pulling him down to lay atop him just as they were.

“Geralt,” Jaskier mumbled. “My arms, I can’t hold myself up any -”

“You don’t have to,” Geralt interrupted. “You’re not going to crush me, you know.”

Jaskier snorted a little, but relented and let Geralt take his full weight. “Do I even weigh anything to you?”

“Not really,” Geralt replied. Jaskier could hear the smugness in it. He rolled his eyes, even though his head was laid down on Geralt’s shoulder and he wouldn’t see it, and aimed a halfhearted smack at his other shoulder.

“Rude,” he said.

“Yes,” Geralt said, unrepentant. “You like me that way, though.”

“All right, well, no need to rub it in.”

Eventually Jaskier pushed himself up and Geralt let him, both of them sighing as they disentangled themselves. Jaskier went and fetched a damp cloth to clean them up with while Geralt sat up and straightened the tangled sheets, working in companionable silence until they fell back into bed together, clean and comfortable.

Geralt fell asleep with Jaskier tucked into the sheltering curve of his body, breathing in the scent of sweetgrass and salt overlaid with the scent of happiness, honey-sweet, and thought perhaps that he’d never been more content in his life.

* * *

Geralt had taken one look at Pegasus and shaken his head, though he forbore to comment aloud. Roach did it for him, with a contemptuous snort as they saddled both horses and prepared to ride out together.

Jaskier pretended not to hear Geralt’s muttered agreement with her assessment.

As they set off from the stableyard, Geralt looked sidelong at him and remarked, “Feels strange, looking over at you instead of down.”

“I’ll show _you_ looking down,” Jaskier retorted, ignoring the slight smirk that hovered at the corners of Geralt’s lips. It didn’t make sense and he didn’t care, too full of a swelling joy too profound to put to words at the future stretching out ahead of them, full of mornings exactly like this one. Clearing his throat to hide the tremble in his voice, he said brightly, “So! Where shall we go, witcher mine?”

Geralt turned and looked at him then, a real, full smile warming his face. “Wherever you like,” he said.

So they did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's all! Just two idiots in love living happily ever after. Thank you so much for your time, your kudos, your lovely comments. Now that this is posted...back to working on the dragonsequel I go!


End file.
